


Call of the Void

by Theatregirl7299



Category: White Collar
Genre: BDSM, Dubious Consent, Multi, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 06:18:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1677887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theatregirl7299/pseuds/Theatregirl7299
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Author Peter Burke can't seem to get a handle on his latest Gothic horror novel--until he meets Neal Caffrey. There's something about this charming, sophisticated club owner that strikes a chord with Peter.  But is Neal all that he appears to be? Or is Peter entering a world of darkness that he may not be able to come back from?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call of the Void

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the White Collar Reverse Big Bang I have lots of thank yous. First and foremost to who created the most amazing art for this. I kept asking her for stuff and she delivered in spades. Her work inspired me to go in directions I didn’t consider. 
> 
> Link to the art post [Artwork for Story](http://kanarek13.livejournal.com/24949.html)
> 
> To my Betas: elrhiarhodan , miri_thompson and embroiderama - they did a fantastic job.
> 
> To coffeethyme4me for allowing me to use one of my favorite bits of dialogue that she wrote and repurpose it for this fic. I hope I did it justice. 
> 
> To elrhiarhodan who dragged me through dry spells and who (virtually) hugged me through RL issues that could have stalled this story completely.
> 
> To miri_thompson and embroiderama both of whom offered their support and advice in terms of writing and otherwise. 
> 
> The line from Pablo Neruda is from his [ Sonnet XVII](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/179257).  
> [ The Spider and the Fly](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Spider_and_the_Fly_%28poem%29) poem is by Mary Howitt.

“Elizabeth, where’s the research on Oheka Castle?” Peter Burke ran a hand through his close-cropped brown hair in frustration. “I printed it out yesterday and I can’t find it.”

He looked around his office and frowned. Papers and books were strewn across his double desk. Notepads with scribbles were tossed on the floor around his chair. Sticky notes were attached to his computer monitor. He sighed. It always got this way when he was starting a new book. His agent was amazed that he could find anything. 

“That’s because you gave it to me to collate and tab.” Elizabeth Mitchell breezed into his office, binder in hand. “And you owe me five dollars.”

“What? Why do I owe you five dollars?” 

“Because you bet me that you would remember giving me the research yesterday.” She sat down on the leather couch in the corner of his office. “So, five dollars please.” She grinned impudently at him.

He couldn’t help but grin back. Elizabeth was the glue that held his life together. A Friend since she became his teaching assistant at Columbia School of Journalism, she kept him organized at school and when he was on assignment as a war correspondent for the New York Times. Later on, Elizabeth stocked his fridge when he was wrapped up in his first novel, got him roaring drunk when he broke up with Daniel after seven years, and generally made herself indispensible.

It was a no-brainer to hire her as his personal assistant when his first book hit the best-seller list. That was ten years ago and it was the best decision he ever made.

“Tell you what. I’ll get you coffee and a pastry at La Belle Café instead.” Peter gestured at the chaos that was his office. “I need to get away from this disaster and think for a bit.”

“Works for me.” Elizabeth left the binder on the couch as she stood up. “And I’ll arrange your space into something usable. Again.”

“God, El, I knew there was a reason I love you!” Peter swiveled his chair around and got up, placing a kiss on Elizabeth’s cheek as he opened the closet door in his office and pulled out a camel’s hair coat. 

“So, one nonfat grande latte for the lady?" he asked as shrugged into it.

"Oh hell no!"

"No?" Peter quirked an eyebrow. "I thought you were counting calories?"

“Not anymore. I've decided that's the bullshit mindfuck of American women and I won’t be party to it.”

Peter let out a laugh. After all these years, El still had the power to amaze him. "Full fat for everyone, then! I'll be back in twenty."

“Bring me back something chocolate,” he heard her call after him as he let himself out the front door.

The night was cold. Peter could see the steam of his breath as he walked the several blocks to La Belle Café. It was times like this that he was glad he worked out of his home. The brownstone was perfect – the work space on the first floor was big enough for him and Elizabeth to spread out and there was plenty of living space upstairs for him and Satchmo.

He nodded at the few neighbors he knew who were out walking their dogs and increased his pace to keep warm. 

The moon cast blue shadows through the trees as he approached the café. It looked warm and inviting and he could smell the roasting coffee beans from the street. Peter knew that the gods were smiling on him when the place opened up last year. The pastries were always fresh, the coffee always hot, and they always seemed to have his table free when he needed a change of scenery to write. 

He was greeted by a chorus of “Hello” and “Hi, Mr. B” as he entered the café. It wasn’t too crowded. A few patrons were sitting at tables and several waiting in line for their orders. Stepping up to the counter, Peter scanned the pastry case looking for something chocolate for Elizabeth. Spying a double chocolate chip muffin, he prepared to place his order.

“Evening, Mr. B.” Blake, the barista, greeted him with a smile. “Your usual?”

“Of course. I’ll also need a grande latte with half and half and three sugars, the double chocolate chip muffin, and throw in a cranberry orange scone.”

“Buying for Ms. Mitchell?” Blake grinned as he prepared the beverages.  
“Yep, she’s off the low fat kick.” Peter pulled out his wallet, took out two twenties and handed them to the cashier. “Keep the change.” He moved over to the receiving area as Blake finished up his coffee order.

“How’s the new book going?” He watched Blake cap the latte and pour his dark roast, adding just the right amount of cream.

“Almost done.” He took the bag of pastries Blake gave him and balanced the coffee cups in each hand. “The recent one comes in next week. I’ll bring you a copy when it gets here.”

“Thanks, Mr. B!” 

Turning around, he started towards the door when he was jostled by a young man texting on his cell phone. His dark roast flew out of his hand and spilled down the front of one of the customers waiting in line.

“Oh shit! I’m so sorry!” Peter quickly grabbed napkins from the counter and dabbed at the man’s shirt. “God, I hope it didn’t burn you.” He peered at the damage.

He heard a low chuckle as the man stopped his movements with his hand.

“I’m fine.” The voice was low and throaty and promised dark things. 

Peter looked up into the face of the most beautiful man he had ever seen. Sculpted cheekbones, blinding grin, and eyes so blue they didn’t look real. 

Peter wanted to write him.

“You sure?” Peter stammered, then mentally kicked himself. He never stammered. Until now.

“Positive. No burns.” The man’s smile got wider. “I’m fine.”

“But your shirt. It’s ruined.” Peter looked back at the man’s clothes in dismay. He recognized the shirt as a Thomas Pink only because Elizabeth insisted on buying them for him.

“It’s fine,” the man repeated.

“Look, at least let me pay for the dry cleaning.” Peter put Elizabeth’s latte on the counter and fumbled through his coat pockets, looking for one of his business cards. 

“There’s no need. It was an accident.” The man’s tone was amused. 

“I insist.” Peter had no clue why it was so important that he make amends to this man. But it was.

“I’ll tell you what. How about you have dinner with me and we’ll call it even.” 

“Dinner?” Peter was floored. This gorgeous man wanted to have dinner with him even after he ruined a three hundred and fifty dollar shirt?

“Yes, dinner.” The man held out a business card. Peter took it, their hands touching briefly. Looking down at the card, Peter’ breath caught. 

It was exquisite. A deep sapphire blue with _l’appel Du Vide_ embossed in silver. Turning it over, he saw the man’s name and a phone number.

_Neal Caffrey._

The name sent chills down Peter’s spine. He looked up to see Caffrey’s patient expression. He was still, like a predator was still, waiting to see what his prey would do.

_It’s just dinner, Peter._

The words teased themselves into his brain. Peter shook his head slightly. Did he really hear that or was it just his subconscious rationalizing a meal with a stranger? A beautiful, mysterious stranger. 

Take the plunge, Burke, he thought. What could it hurt? “Okay…okay. I can do dinner.” 

“Excellent.” The man’s – Neal’s – smile grew wider. “Call me in the next few days and we can compare schedules.” He took the card from Peter’s fingers and tucked it into the front pocket of Peter’s jeans. The slight pressure of his hand against Peter’s thigh felt like a flame. 

Neal motioned to the counter behind him. “I think Blake remade your dark roast.” Sure enough, a fresh cup was right next to Elizabeth’s latte. Peter picked them up and turned back to Neal.

“You should get those back before they get cold.” Neal stepped to the door and held it open. “I look forward to your call. I have a feeling we are going to enjoy ourselves.”

Somehow Peter found himself out on the sidewalk, coffees in hand. Shaking his head, he glanced at the café to see Neal observing him, a small smile on his face.

Blushing, he began quickly walking towards his house, replaying the events in his mind. He’d never been the type to be asked out. Not by someone who looked as stunning as Neal Caffrey. Elizabeth always insisted that he was handsome and that any guy would be thrilled to go out with him, but Peter knew better. He was a book-writing geek. And he was happy about that.

He was so buried in his thoughts that he almost tripped over the black cat that darted out of a doorway. Hissing, it swiped at Peter’s ankles, its yellow eyes flashing, before it disappeared around the corner. 

Half a block and he was back home, fumbling for his keys before he gave up and rang the bell. Elizabeth let him in, taking her latte from his hand.

“What took you so long?” She sipped her drink as she followed him into his office. 

Peter put his coffee and the pastry bag on the now pristine desk and shrugged off his coat. “I kind of ran into someone,” he said, hanging up the garment.

“Kind of?” Elizabeth perched on the desk and opened the bag. Making happy noises, she pulled out the muffin. “What do you mean by that?”

Peter sat down and motioned for the bag. “Literally. I ran into someone and spilled my coffee on them.” He caught the bag she tossed at him and took out the scone. 

“Oh, Peter!” 

“Yeah. Funny thing, though. When I offered to pay for his dry cleaning he asked me out.” He broke off a portion of the scone, popped it into his mouth and took a drink of his coffee.

“He what?” Elizabeth squeaked and bounced off the desk. “You have a date?”

Peter chuckled. “I guess I do.”

“Well what’s he like?” Elizabeth plopped herself down on his lap. “I want all the details.”

Peter laughed. “Nosey.” 

“Of course. Now dish.” She settled herself more comfortably on his lap. 

“He’s…” Peter trailed off, his mind sorting through his impressions of Caffrey as he absentmindedly stroked her hair. Gorgeous, sexy, dangerous. “…surreal,” was what came out of his mouth.

“That’s an interesting description. Not quite what I had expected.” 

“It was weird, El. Most people would be upset that I ruined their shirt. He asked me out to dinner.” 

“That’s actually incredibly sexy, Peter.” Elizabeth reached for her latte. “And don’t think I’m sidetracked. I still want to know what he looks like.” She smirked at him. “Yes, I’m shallow that way.”

“Actually, he’s got your coloring. So much so that you two could be brother and sister.” Peter remembered the smile Neal had shared with him at the café. “He’s stunning, El.”

Elizabeth laughed. “See! I always knew you had the hots for me – I just had the wrong equipment!”

“You know I like smart, leggy brunettes.” Peter smiled at her. This was a game they’d played for years and it never got old.

“What’s his name?” she asked, taking another sip of her coffee.

“Neal Caffrey. Oh, and he gave me his card.” Peter shifted her slightly on his lap so he could dig the card out of his pocket. “Here.” He handed it to her.

“Wait, he gave you this?” Elizabeth twisted so she could look at Peter. 

“Yeah, why?” Peter was confused at the intensity of her reaction to Neal’s business card.

“This is a card for l’appel Du Vide, Peter!” Elizabeth’s eyes were wide with what looked like shock. And something else.

“So?” Peter had never heard of it. He’d assumed it was some kind of club or bar. Since he wasn’t a big partier, it really didn’t register as something special.

“So? l’appel Du Vide is one of the most exclusive clubs in New York. It caters to a…specific kind of clientele.” Elizabeth’s tone caught Peter’s attention. 

“What kind of clientele, El?” He was surprised to see a blush creep across Elizabeth’s face. “El?” he pressed.

His assistant bit her lip and her blush deepened. Peter’s imagination ran wild and El’s next words confirmed every dirty thought. “The kind that like to explore their darker natures.”

“You mean - ” Peter dropped his voice and whispered. “Whips? Chains? Leather?” He ducked and chuckled as she swatted him lightly. 

“There’s nothing wrong with expanding your horizons,” she huffed. “’You should try it.”

“Not my thing. But it seems it might be yours?” He raised an eyebrow. 

“That would be none of your business,” she said in mock outrage.

“Elizabeth Mitchell, I never knew you were so kinky.” He tickled her just to be annoying.

“Stop it!” She wriggled away from him and sat back on the desk. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Peter Burke!”

“Obviously. Guess I’ll have to rethink your birthday present.” He grinned as she stuck her tongue out at him. “Seriously though, there are several BDSM clubs in town. What’s so special about this one?”

“It popped up out of nowhere about a year ago. Somehow the owner managed to work around the zoning ordinances and open it in a residential area.” Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled like sapphires as she leaned in to share her information. “The neighbors were upset at first, but then, just like that, all the opposition stopped.” She snapped her fingers.

Peter’s investigative instincts kicked in. There was no way that the zoning laws could be bypassed without a lot of influence. And money.

“What else?” Mentally he began his checklist of contacts to nudge for information.

“My friend Cheryl at the Mayor’s office told me that the liquor license was granted within a week.” Elizabeth finished her muffin and licked the crumbs slowly from her fingers. Peter had to look away – even though they didn’t play for the same team, the sight of Elizabeth Mitchell sucking on _anything_ was enough to set any man’s blood thrumming. Especially now that he knew she had a less than innocent side.

“El -,” he warned, knowing full well she was doing it on purpose.

“What?” She widened her eyes, then fell into a small laugh. “Sorry.”

“No you’re not.” Peter crumpled up the pastry bag and tossed it into the trashcan. “So what else do you know?”

“I know that you’re not going to get anything from your sources this time, Peter.” Elizabeth collected their coffee cups and dropped them in the can next to the bag. “It’s like the place has protection or something. No one has filed a complaint and no one will talk about it if they’re asked.”

“Hmmm…wonder if the club has a web site.” He turned to the computer and Googled ‘l’appel Du Vide’. More than 860,000 results popped up. Peter clicked on one and read the entry. 

“Interesting definition.” He turned the monitor so she could see it. The cursor rested at the beginning of the definition, the blue line blinking steadily.

>   
> _l’appel du vide_ French - Translates literally as “call of the void”. The urge some people get to jump from high places when they encounter them, for example when close to the edge of cliffs.
> 
> _l’appel du Vide_ is a French word that defines a psychological phenomenon in which secret desires, subconscious yearnings, and impulses of the flesh pierce through the wall that is held up by a social understanding of what is logical and what is acceptable.

“Perfect name for the club.” Elizabeth took over the mouse and clicked back to the search page. “Let’s see if we can find their web page.”

About halfway down the screen they found _lappelduvide.com_.  
A few clicks and they were on the entrance page of the club. 

There was a single line of text on the page – “l’appel Du Vide – Give In.” Below it was an ‘enter’ button. 

Elizabeth grinned at him. “Ready to jump off the cliff?” she teased.

“Metaphorically speaking?” Peter’s voice was dry.

“Oh, of course.” She giggled as he made a face at her tone.

“Why not?” He waved his hand. “Let’s see what this place has to offer.”

She clicked the button and they were sent to the home page. 

The website was very tasteful and gave absolutely no indication of the type of club it was. Designed in the same colors as the card that Neal had given Peter, the fine dining, music and wine selections were highlighted but nothing else. They saw photos of what looked like a lounge and piano bar, an intimate dining area and an impressive wine cellar. But nothing about the true nature of the club.

“Very discrete.” Despite himself, Peter was impressed. And errant thought crossed his mind that he would have been disappointed if it were more open. He saw a tiny jewel button in the lower right hand side of the screen. 

“See where that goes.” He pointed to the button and Elizabeth clicked on it.

Text appeared on the screen.

> _Welcome to l’appel Du Vide._
> 
> _We are an invitation-only venue catering to like-minded individuals who want to share their passions – for food, for spirits, for music, for life. Our hours vary based on our members’ needs, wants and desires._
> 
> _Thank you for stopping by – maybe we’ll see you soon._
> 
> _Salut,_
> 
> _NC, owner._

“So I guess the only way to get in is by invitation.” Peter closed out the tabs and pushed away from the desk in thought. “Have to admit, though, it’s nice and subtle. The owner definitely knows how to keep it low key.”

“The owner? Wait. NC…” Elizabeth reached over the desk and picked up Neal’s business card. “Peter, look. NC. It’s got to stand for Neal Caffrey. He’s the owner!” She wriggled in excitement on the desk. “Oh you HAVE to go out with him now!”

“Why, so he can lure me into a life of debauchery?” Peter scoffed.

“Well, _someone_ needs to!” Elizabeth hopped off the desk and took his face in her hands. “You have been entirely too wrapped up in writing and researching lately. You need to get out and live a bit.”

She kissed him quickly on his forehead. “And with that, I’m leaving. It’s late and we both need sleep.” She let go of Peter’s face and walked to the closet. Pulling her coat from its hanger, she turned back to him. “Call him.”

“I’ll think about it.” Peter watched her put on her coat and wrap her scarf around her neck.

She picked up her purse and sailed out of the office, tossing out, “Call him, Peter, or I’ll do it for you!”

“Yes, mother!” he shouted after her as he heard the door shut.

Sighing, Peter stood up and began closing the house down for the night. He fed Satchmo and checked his water bowl, then turned off the lights before heading upstairs. 

Preparing for bed, he considered Elizabeth’s words. It HAD been a while since he’d been out with anyone who wasn’t his agent, his editor or wasn’t somehow related to his writing. Maybe it was time.

He took off his t-shirt and stepped out of his jeans. Clad in his black boxer briefs, he stopped to look at himself in the mirror. Twisting around, he checked out his chest, his legs, and snuck a quick look at his ass. Not bad for his age, he mused. Could use a bit more time in the exercise room in the basement. Peter flexed his biceps, then chuckled. He was definitely assuming. 

Neal Caffrey was so far out of his league it wasn’t even funny. If he DID have dinner with Neal, that was all it probably was going to be. He shouldn’t get his hopes up.

Walking over to the dresser, Peter found a pair of cotton sleep pants and a ‘Writers Do It ‘Til Their Hands Cramp’ t-shirt that Elizabeth bought him for his birthday last year. Sliding out of his underwear, he dressed and climbed into bed.

Peter punched his pillows as he tried to find a comfortable position. It felt like hours before he closed his eyes, falling into an uneasy sleep, his thoughts full of black cats and blue-eyed handsome men.

The black cat made its way through the quiet neighborhoods, slinking past dark houses, avoiding pedestrians and the occasional stray dog. If anyone had looked closely, they would say that the feline was intent on a destination.

Scurrying down the stairs to the subway, it wound its way around the legs of the waiting commuters until it was at the edge of the platform. Its ears swiveled as the announcement for the Q to Times Square crackled through the speakers.

As the train pulled up and the doors opened, the cat moved like a shadow through the entrance and huddled under the seats, away from a shifting heel and errant briefcase. Settling in, it blinked sleepy eyes as the train pulled away from the station.

A dozen stops and ninety minutes later, the cat let the flow of passengers carry it out of the train and up the steps that led to the more genteel area of the city. It trotted down the sidewalk towards the gates of the enormous mansion on the corner. Slithering through the iron gate, it made its way to the back of the building and pushed its way through the cat door into the kitchen.

The efficient bustle of the room allowed for anonymity as the cat followed one of the servers out into the main area. 

Sapphire blue and silver grey highlighted the décor throughout the interior. Overstuffed couches and solid wood tables were placed strategically to provide the flow of conversation without forcing interaction.

The rooms were occupied, but not overtly so. Small groups and pairs were sitting throughout the spaces, enjoying the food and conversation. Others were listening to the bluesy melody of the piano as they sipped whatever concoctions the bartender had created for them.

The cat ignored them as it ran up the grand staircase. Pausing on the upper floors, its ears twitched again, as though it was listening for a specific sound. Muted moans and faint slaps of leather against flesh filtered through the air. In a definite attitude of dismissal, the feline padded up the final staircase to the single door at the end of the hall.

Nudging the door open with its head, the feline entered the apartment. Chirruping in a questioning tone, it looked around the room.

“Out here, Moz.” A voice drifted through the open balcony doors. “Your clothes are on the bed.”

Meowing in acknowledgement, the cat padded over to the queen bed in the alcove, limbs elongating and stretching until the figure became a short, balding naked man. 

Quickly dressing in loose pants and an overshirt, he took his glasses from the nightstand, polishing them before he put them on.

“You better have some of that 2009 Ausone left.” Mozzie headed to the wine rack. “I narrowly avoided getting bit by a rabid poodle, not to mention the fact that some drunk on the subway almost threw up on me.” He sighed in satisfaction when he found the Ausone. Uncorking it, he poured a glass and took a long sip. Rolling it around his tongue, he let the taste invade his mouth before swallowing.

“Poor baby.” The voice was amused. 

“Are you coming inside, Neal? Just because you don’t feel the cold doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t.” Mozzie leaned against the counter and waited for Neal to come in from the outside. 

“You know the cold doesn’t bother you.” Neal strolled through the doors, artfully disheveled in a slate blue silk shirt and grey linen pants.

“When I have fur. But when I’m me,” Mozzie gestured to his bald head. “It gets frigid on occasion.” He watched his friend top off his glass with the Malbec that was on the table. 

“Well, I appreciate your help.” Neal took a sip. “So what did you learn?”

“I learned that I’m tired of following your potential conquests.” Neal gave him a look. “Okay, he lives about four blocks away from the café. A really nice Brownstone.”

Mozzie sat at the table and opened up the laptop that was sitting there. Typing in a few codes and the house number he’d seen, he called up information on Neal’s new obsession.

“His name is Peter Burke.” Mozzie paused. “That name rings a bell…” He trailed off as he searched his memory for where he’d heard that name before. “Oh, and I think he has a wife. A woman opened the door for him.” Mozzie turned the laptop around so Neal could see what he had found. 

Mozzie watched Neal study the page. “When has that ever been an issue?” he heard his friend murmur as he scrolled through the data. “He’s a writer. A fairly popular one by the looks of things.”

“Wait, he’s THAT Peter Burke?” Mozzie leaned forward to see the screen. “I’ve read his stuff. Gothic-style horror. He’s fantastic.”

He sat back and regarded Neal. “You may want to take a pass on this one, Neal. Peter Burke going to be difficult to make disappear when the time comes.”

Neal looked up at him with a wicked smile. “All the more challenging.”

Mozzie sighed. He knew it wouldn’t matter what he said. Peter Burke was on Neal’s radar and there was nothing Mozzie could do once that happened. Except handle damage control and hide the bodies, if necessary.

Mozzie studied Neal as he scrolled through the information on the laptop. Ethereally beautiful, the light from the screen made his eyes glow like deep lapis lazuli, and highlighted his thick sable hair with glints of silver. 

If Burke was in any way attracted to men, Mozzie thought, there was no way he would be able to put up a defense against Neal’s charms. If he wasn’t, it would only take a bit longer and some of Neal’s special skills to make him succumb. Either way…

Mozzie needed to pace. For some reason, the thought of Neal seducing and discarding Peter Burke didn’t set well with him. He grabbed his wine and crossed the room. 

His eye was caught by the familiar portrait on the easel. It was an image of Neal – but not the current Neal. This Neal was standing in front of a backdrop that looked like a garden with Greek ruins, a Spaniel at his feet. His hair was shorter and styled with some sort of oil. A moustache and goatee graced his face. 

He was dressed in a suit that would have been the envy of Beau Brummel. Wearing a pinstriped morning coat with a deep blue vest and grey trousers, his eyes flashing, he was breathtaking. 

But something was off.

Mozzie moved closer and squinted at the painting. He realized that Neal’s hair was greying at the temples and his laugh lines were more pronounced. The colors also were fading, like the side of a barn too long in the sun.

“Neal, when’s the last time you did a touch up?” He brushed his fingers along the background and watched the paint flake away.

“Mmmm…don’t remember.” Neal’s attention was still on the computer. “A month or so ago, maybe?”

“You’re crumbling.” Mozzie held his fingers out so Neal could see the cracked pigments on his hand. 

“Damn.” Neal quickly rose from the table and joined Mozzie at the portrait. Picking up the knife that was laying in the brush tray, he sliced his thumb.

Mozzie winced as drops of blood fell from the cut into a white ceramic dish. Neal picked up a brush and swirled it in the droplets.

He watched Neal touch the brush to the painting in the Cardinal positions – North, South, East, West – in an almost reverent gesture of genuflection. 

The blood shimmered for a moment, then disappeared, along with the grey in Neal’s hair and lines on his face. The colors exploded across the canvas – striking greens in the foliage, deep browns of the dog’s fur, the cerulean blue of Neal’s eyes.

“Neal, you can’t let the portrait go like that.” Mozzie knew he sounded disapproving but Neal needed reminding. “It’s part of the agreement.”

“I know, I know.” Neal sucked on the pad of his thumb for a moment, then removed it to expose perfectly unmarked skin. “It’s just sometimes it gets away from me.”

“It can’t.” Mozzie scowled at him. “It’s too important.” He walked back to the table to refill his glass. “And when was the last time you fed?”

“Monday.” 

“And it’s what…Thursday now?” Neal had the decency to look shamefaced at the glare Mozzie gave him. “Neal.”

“Okay. Tonight. I promise.” 

“Good. I’m going home. And I’m using the outside stairs. I don’t want to listen to all that on my way out.” Mozzie waved his hand, indicating the activities in the rooms below him. 

He found his coat on the arm of the couch and put it on. Heading to the balcony doors, he turned and regarded Neal. His friend was staring at the portrait, eyes unfocused.

“Neal.” Mozzie waited until he had Neal’s attention. “About Peter Burke - is there any way I can convince you to find someone else?”

Neal looked at him, his eyes becoming shadowed. “No, Moz, you can’t. I’m sorry.” Neal turned away, the conversation obviously over.

Mozzie sighed and slipped into the night, leaving his friend to his own thoughts.

Neal felt Mozzie’s disapproval hanging in the air even though his friend had left almost an hour before. He wasn’t sure which annoyed the little man most – Neal’s absentmindedness about touching up the portrait, the fact that he hadn’t fed for three days or his fascination with Peter Burke.

Finishing his wine, he walked over to the kitchenette and placed his glass in the sink. He needed to go downstairs. Now that Mozzie had brought his attention to it, Neal could sense his hunger gnawing inside him. He definitely was walking a fine edge. A day or two more and he would be hurting and dangerous to those around him.

Neal didn’t want to think about that. It had only happened once – when he was still discovering who he was – and he swore it would never happen again. They’d given him a reprieve that time, but that was the only one. Sighing, he left his apartment and moved gracefully down the stairs, his bare feet making no sound on the thick runner. 

The light in the hallway was muted, blue-shaded table lamps spotlighting areas on the cobalt and silver Aubusson carpeting. The heavy oak doors were closed, muffling the sounds of the participants within.

Neal walked slowly past the entrances, his senses searching for the right bouquet. None seemed to be acceptable. Too much alcohol in one, not enough iron in another. A terminal illness in a third. 

He was set to go down to the second floor when a whisper of nutmeg teased his nostrils. It was coming from one of the rooms at the end of the hall. _Perfect._ Walking quickly to the door, he silently turned the knob and slipped into the room.

The smell of nutmeg was stronger here, underlying the aroma of sex that pervaded the air. The occupants on the bed were entwined, slick skin rubbing against each other as they fucked. He was dark, she was pale – they looked like delicious sin and Neal wanted a taste. His attention was captured by the flexing of the man’s ass as he rutted between the woman’s thighs.

Neal knew that body, that dark skin. Neal had licked, sucked and fucked it many times and had been at the mercy of that cock on more than one occasion. Clinton Jones was a master – master vampire, master Dom and the best of Neal’s employees. 

Neal moved out of the shadows so the man could see him. Jones acknowledged Neal’s presence with a dirty grin as he tweaked the nipple of the woman writhing under him. 

Eyes glittering, Neal watched Jones rise up on his knees and thrust rapidly into the woman’s pussy as he played with her clit. She moaned as he pumped into her, begging him to fuck her harder. Jones laughed and caught Neal’s hungry gaze.

“What do you think, Neal? Should I give her what she wants?”

The woman’s eyes flew open. Gasping, she tried to struggle away, only to be held down gently but firmly by Jones’ hand. “Relax, sweetheart, it’s just the boss. If you’re lucky he might even join us.” She mewled as he caressed her breast, tugging on her nipple again. 

“She’s incredible, Neal. You really need to taste her.” Jones chuckled, slowing his pace to make her beg harder.

Neal approached the bed, running his fingers lightly across the taut muscles of Jones’ back as he got closer. He felt Jones shudder under his touch and heard him curse softly.

“Damn, Caffrey.” The whispered words were swallowed as Neal leaned in and took Jones’ mouth with his own. Keeping the other man’s lips prisoner, Neal wrapped his arm around Jones, caressing his hips until he touched Jones’ erection, feeling it glide in and out of the woman’s pussy, their juices mingled.

He heard Jones’ groan as Neal squeezed the base of his cock, stroking it in time with his thrusts. It was a heady feeling and Neal could feel his own dick starting to stir. 

Jones tore his mouth away and licked a long stripe up Neal’s jaw. “Gonna fuck you later,” he growled in Neal’s ear. “But you gotta let her suck you when you feed. Trust me, it’s worth it.” 

Neal could feel Jones’ fangs drop down slightly and graze his jugular. He shivered, his erection swelling at Jones’ words. He let go of Jones’ dick and brought his hand to his mouth, licking the two of them off his fingers. The taste was spicy, dark and decadent. Neal knew he had to have it.

Bringing his hand back down, he pinched the woman’s clit, making her squeal.

Jones chuckled again. “What do you think, sweetheart?” Neal saw him snap his hips and a groan escaped him as he remembered the last time Jones fucked him and used that move. “You gonna show the boss what a good little cocksucker you are?”

She nodded her head frantically, unconsciously licking her lips as Neal moved to the head of the bed. “Please,” she whispered, bucking her hips, eyes wide.

“Please, what?” Neal’s voice was dark, waiting to see how far she would beg to get his cock in her mouth.

“Wanna suck you…oh God please.” Her back arched and her hands gripped the sheets as Jones leaned down and bit a nipple.

“How bad do you want it?” Neal was playing with her, getting her riled up even further. Everything tasted better when that happened.

“Bad…please…want your dick in my mouth…” She sobbed as she spoke the words. Neal could tell that Jones had her right on the edge. Any more teasing would end things prematurely; not at all what Neal wanted.

“Take me out.” The coldness in Neal’s voice had her quickly unzipping him and freeing his cock from the silk and linen. He was hard in her hand, the head of his dick swollen and beginning to leak droplets of pre-come.

She moaned at the sight of him and stroked Neal from base to tip, bringing him closer to where she could reach him.

He pressed in towards her mouth, his thighs catching the edge of the bed, at the perfect level for her to simply turn her head and let him slide in between her lips.

Warm and wet engulfed him and he couldn’t help a small whimper at how good it felt. Knees weak, he put a hand on the headboard to steady himself. 

She sucked him, her tongue wrapping around his shaft as he thrust his cock languidly into her mouth. Neal closed his eyes and reveled in his spiraling arousal and hunger. He lost track of time, giving in to the sensations of her teeth grazing him, her hands caressing his balls, the hitch in her movements when Jones rubbed her clit. 

The smell of nutmeg was stronger now and it spurred him to move his hips faster. She stroked his length as he fucked past her lips, wanting to shove himself deeper until he could feel her face pressed against his thighs.

“God, Caffrey, you look like a fucking porn star.” Jones’ voice startled Neal. He was so wrapped up in the sensations of _want_ and _hungry_ and _now_ that he’d almost forgotten Jones was there. Almost.

Neal opened his eyes to see his friend looking at him with lust heavy eyes. “You close?”

“Yeah.” Neal nodded, feeling the exquisite drawing up of his balls as he barreled toward completion. Moaning, he grabbed her hair, holding her head still so he could shove his cock deeper into her throat. Her hands fluttered at the confinement, one reaching up and grabbing the front of his silk shirt. 

Capturing her hand, he bent his head, licking across her wrist as his fangs dropped into position.

“Make her come, Jones.” His voice was guttural.

Moments later, Neal felt the woman clamp her lips down on his cock as she orgasmed. Plunging his fangs into her wrist, the taste of nutmeg exploded across his senses. She tasted delicious – warm, and spicy and alive. He drank deeply.

The woman moaned and Neal caught her staring at him. Her deep brown eyes were locked on his as he continued to thrust into her mouth. 

His mind flashed to the last time he’d seen brown eyes.

At the cafe. Peter’s eyes. 

An image flooded his vision - Peter on his knees, Neal’s cock in his mouth. Trembling, submissive. _His._

Neal exploded, shooting ropes of semen down her throat, the excess dribbling from the sides of her mouth. Dimly, he heard Jones come with a shout. 

Spent, he withdrew his fangs from her wrist, licking the spots to seal up the wounds and let her hand fall to the bed. His cock, limp and glistening, slipped from her lips. 

The woman’s eyes were glassy, closing as she lost consciousness. Breathing deeply, Neal tucked himself away. Jones was splayed partially across her body, sides heaving. Neal watched as he shifted off of her to sit up on the edge of the bed.

“You okay?” Jones asked, grinning at Neal’s nod. “Told you she was good.”

“Yeah.” Neal inclined his head towards the bed. “Make sure she doesn’t remember anything. We want her to come back.”

“You know I always do.” Jones stood, grabbed a towel from the dresser and began wiping himself down. Neal watched, appreciating the view, before heading towards the door. 

“Wait.” Jones captured his wrist. “You missed a spot.” Neal felt Jones’ thumb brush the corner of his jaw as he pulled Neal in for a kiss, swiping his tongue on the side of Neal’s mouth. 

Neal chuckled against his lips, feeling his cock stir at the sound of Jones’ hum. 

“Later.” Neal pulled away regretfully, slipping out of the room into the hallway. He knew Jones would take care of rearranging the woman’s mind to give her pleasant memories of the three of them. 

His thoughts drifted to Peter and the thrilling fantasy that made him come so hard this evening. He wondered what Peter would taste like, what sounds he would make when Neal fucked him. And he _would_ fuck him. 

Neal walked slowly back to his apartment, his mind full of plans for the seduction and mastery of one Peter Burke.

Peter woke with a gasp, hand on his cock and semen smeared all over his stomach.

 _What the hell?_ He tried to get up, but realized his legs were tangled up in the bedclothes. Wiping his hand on his shirt, Peter unraveled himself from the sheets and sat up on the edge of the bed. 

His thoughts were in a whirl. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d come in his sleep. Sure, he’d woken up with the typical morning wood, but to actually unconsciously orgasm – it had been a while.

Peter grimaced at the stickiness on his shirt and sleep pants. Standing up, he quickly stripped and made his way to the bathroom, tossing the clothes into the hamper on his way.

Turning on the shower, he let the water warm as he tried to make sense of the dream that had gotten him so aroused.

Stepping under the spray, Peter’s poured soap onto a washcloth and began cleaning his body. His thoughts whirled with images of cats morphing into people, blood drops spattered against white porcelain, shadowy rooms decorated in blue and silver…

_…and Neal._

Peter’s dick stirred as the scene flooded his mind.

_Neal watching as the couple on the bed fucked with abandon…_

_The two men kissing, Neal stroking the other man as he pushed into his partner…_

Peter’s hand slid down to his now rock hard cock, mimicking the rhythm of Neal’s fingers. Panting, he jacked himself as he imagined Neal’s hand wrapped around him, squeezing Peter the same way that Neal was touching the other man.

_Neal’s eyes glittering as he ordered the woman to unzip him…_

_Neal’s head thrown back as she wrapped her mouth around his dick…_

Peter wanted to feel Neal’s hardness on his tongue, wanted to be the one to suck him down. It had been too long since he had been with another person.

He braced himself against the tiled walls as he stroked himself harder, imagining what Neal would taste like, how hard he would come with Peter kneeling between his feet, his lips sliding up and down Neal’s shaft.

Peter could feel his orgasm barreling towards him. 

“Oh, God…” His moans echoed off the tiles, amplifying his want.

_Neal’s fangs sliding into the woman’s wrist…_

Wait, _what?_ His mind froze on that image, but his body had other ideas.

Peter came with a shout, splashing hot stripes across his chest, hand, stomach. He collapsed weakly against the wall, the picture of Neal feeding from the woman’s arm stark in his brain.

As he regained his equilibrium, Peter tried to rationalize that last image. The picture of Neal’s fangs slipping gracefully into her vein, his lips kissing her wrist. The look of utter bliss on his face. 

The fact that Peter came harder than he had in a long time with that specific thought in his head. 

The only thing he could come up with was that his need to get laid, his interest in Neal and his work were getting jumbled up in his subconscious. 

_Or not…_ A niggling voice crept in, chiseling cracks in his certainty. 

The water started to cool before Peter left the shower.

He toweled himself off and pulled on jeans and a heather grey Henley. His thoughts kept drifting back to the vision of Neal. It unsettled him.

Sighing, he headed downstairs to his office to start the day.

Peter was ready to tear his hair out by the time Elizabeth arrived four hours later.

She set his dark roast and a pastry on his credenza and waited until he’d finished flinging obscenities at the computer. Peter looked up to see her watching him, a tiny smile on her face.

“Wanna share?” She perched on her usual spot on his desk, crossed her legs and nudged him with the end of her peep-toe Laboutins.

“It’s crap, El. It’s all crap.” Peter huffed and sat back in his chair. “I’ve just spent the last several hours writing utter garbage.” He waved at the computer with a grimace. 

“How do you know it’s garbage?” She rested her foot on his thigh and he absentmindedly began rubbing her ankle. 

“Let me read it to you.” Peter cleared his throat. 

“Demetrius knew that the full moon was rising, despite the thick, roiling clouds. He wanted to howl, to be heard above the rising winds, he wanted blood and gore and the feel of hot, fresh meat in his mouth.

“He wanted to be _an animal._

“A thousand moons had waxed and waned and the suffered through this torture every month. 

“‘Let the beast go and we're finished.’ His lover, Marcus, stood in the doorway, briefly illuminated by a flash of lightening. Marcus, a vampire ten times more ancient that Demetrius would ever be, demanded control. Enforced it with ruthless determination.

“As much as Demetrius wanted to release his beast, he wanted Marcus more....” Peter stopped as he heard Elizabeth giggle. 

“Oh, Peter!” Her voice was muffled due to the hand over her mouth. Peter saw her blue eyes crinkling with the laughter she was trying not to show him. “Yeah, that’s pretty awful.”

“You’re not supposed to agree with me!” He tweaked her middle toe and grinned as she squeaked and tried to pull her foot away. 

“Well it is! I mean, ‘the feel of hot, fresh meat in his mouth.’?” She wiggled her finger at him. “Peter, you should know better.”

“Don’t wave that finger at me, Ms. Mitchell. Not unless you want me to bite it.” Peter made a half-hearted attempt to nip at the digit.

“Promises, promises.” Elizabeth tapped his nose before sliding off the desk. “Yet you never follow through.” She sat down in her chair and began sorting through the day’s mail.

“Well if I’d known earlier that you were into all that kinky stuff…” He let his voice trail off suggestively.

“Uh huh.” Her tone was dry. “Can we get back to business instead of your unnatural fascination with my sex life?”

“Well, your sex life IS unnatural –.” Peter ducked, avoiding the crumpled up envelope Elizabeth threw at him. “Okay, okay. I’ll stop.” He sighed and grew serious. “The new novel sucks, El. It’s on par with a Harlequin. ”

Peter pushed himself back from the desk to pace the room. Sometimes moving helped the creative process. 

“What about it doesn’t work?” Elizabeth was finished with the mail and Peter could see she had moved on to his scheduling book.

“The characters are flat, the situations cliché, the descriptions tired.” Peter shook his head. It was pretty sad that he could identify just what was wrong, but he couldn’t figure out how to fix it without completely starting over.

“Is this one you have to write?” Elizabeth opened up Outlook on her computer and began tweaking his schedule. 

Peter shook his head. He had a limited series under a pen name that sold under the paranormal romance genre that he was required to add to from time to time. “No, thank God, so I can scrap this if I need to.”

He stopped pacing and faced her. “I need something fresh. Something that hasn’t been done before.”

His mind flashed to this morning and he flushed. Part of him wanted to tell Elizabeth about his dream – maybe use it as a jumping off point for a new story – but he didn’t want her to see how much it had affected him.

“Do we need to brainstorm?” Elizabeth stood up and went to the whiteboard that Peter used to outline ideas. She cleaned it off and waited for his reply.

“Yeah, probably.” Peter took the coffee and pastry that he had neglected and sat back down. A sip told him that it wasn’t too cold to drink. 

“So are we going to keep vampires?” Elizabeth tilted her head in inquiry. 

Vampires. 

_Neal’s mouth on the woman’s skin, blood sliding down his throat…_

Peter’s pants tightened with arousal. _Fuck!_ He surreptitiously adjusted himself. This was going to be a long day if his dream kept interrupting. He intentionally pushed the image to the back of his brain and willed his half-hard penis to relax. 

“Let’s go with something else…how about ghosts?” Ghosts were good. Not vampires. Not Neal. Safe.

Taking a deep breath, he focused on the whiteboard. He could do this.

Two hours later they had nothing. The trashcan was filled with paper towels covered in dry erase ink – a testament to the many ideas presented and discarded.

Peter could tell that Elizabeth was frustrated. They’d come up with some good concepts, but they just weren’t right. Weren’t perfect. He ran his hands through his hair again. 

They needed a break.

“I need a break.” Elizabeth’s voice echoed his thoughts. “Or else I’m going to commit homicide.” She stretched and Peter saw her wince.

“C’mere.” He shifted from where he’d moved to the couch so she could sit next to him. Turning her a bit, he started massaging her shoulders, feeling the tension he’d created begin to dissipate. “I’m sorry. It’s just…”

She leaned back into him and he felt her warmth. “I know. You just want it to be right.” 

Peter wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her shoulder. “Yeah. I don’t know why that’s so important, but it is.”

Elizabeth turned her head and kissed his cheek. “Sometimes it happens. You did this with _Veiled Threat_ if you remember. And look how that turned out.”

Peter smiled and returned the kiss on her cheek. _Veiled Threat_ was his best book to date. He remembered the hours it took for him and Elizabeth to hammer out the details of the black widow, her victims and the FBI agent who caught her. 

“You’re right. I guess this one will just take some time.” He settled more comfortably on the couch, pulling Elizabeth solidly into his embrace. Peter felt her sigh and relax against him. He nuzzled her hair, inhaling the scent of the shampoo and body lotion he’d gotten her for Christmas.

“You know, we probably should save some of those ideas. They might work out later.” Elizabeth pointed to the board. “I kind of like number three. A haunted Book of Hours that heals and kills is kind of neat.”

“Yeah, I like that one for down the road.” Peter read through the list, mentally checking off the prompts that had potential. At least his editor would be happy that he had future books in the pipeline. As long as he could get the current one done he was golden.

“Okay, I need to get up and do something that isn’t writing. Like eat real food.” He nudged Elizabeth’s hip. “Let’s go pig out.”

They headed to the kitchen. Elizabeth let Satchmo out while Peter foraged in the refrigerator, pulling out the elements for sandwiches as well as a pitcher of iced tea. 

“Deviled ham?” He held up a container.

“Ew no! That stuff stinks.” Elizabeth wrinkled her nose.

“Hey now, it’s good stuff.” His protest was half-hearted and he put the container back in the fridge.

Elizabeth poured them glasses of tea. “It’s one of the reasons you’re single. You’re dates all have a nose.” 

“Cute.” Peter moved to the counter and grabbed plates from the cupboard. “Roast beef or turkey?”

“Turkey, please, with cheese.” Elizabeth sat down at the kitchen island and sipped her tea. “Speaking of dates, have you called Neal Caffrey yet?”

“No.” Finishing the sandwiches, he sliced them and placed Elizabeth’s in front of her. “I was too busy with Demetreus’s desire for hot meat in his mouth.” 

“Maybe if it was –,” Elizabeth began.

“El!” Peter blushed as thoughts of his shower fantasy snuck back into his brain. And he’d been doing so well.

“So you HAVE been thinking of it!” 

Peter took a bite of his sandwich so he wouldn’t have to answer her. 

“Come on. Share.” She bit into her sandwich with a relish that made Peter shudder. 

“It was nothing. Just a…dream. That’s all.” He ducked his head, hoping she wouldn’t press for more details.

“All the more reason to call him.” She slid off the kitchen stool. “Wait here.”

A moment later she was back with Peter’s cell phone and Neal’s business card. Peter groaned.

“You’re going to make me do this now, aren’t you?” he complained, putting his sandwich down.

“You know it.” Elizabeth punched in the number and handed the phone to him. All he had to do was press the ‘send’ key. “Peter, look at me.” He met her eyes. “You need this. You spend entirely too much time working and with me. And while I love you dearly, you need a life.” She motioned to the phone. “Call him. What could it hurt?”

He thought about her words. _What could it hurt?_

He pressed the ‘send’ key.

The phone rang long enough for Peter to have second thoughts about staying on the line.

He was just about to disconnect the call when a honeyed voice spoke.

_“l’appel Du Vide, how may I help you?”_

“Um, I’m calling for Neal Caffrey.” For whatever reason he hadn’t expected a receptionist and the unfamiliar voice threw him for a moment.

_“Is this Peter Burke?”_ The voice took on a warmer tone. 

“Yeah.” Peter glanced at Elizabeth and mouthed, _They know my name._ She grinned and clapped her hands. He wasn’t sure what that meant, but he figured it was good.

_“Oh good. Neal has been expecting your call. Let me put you through.”_ The voice disappeared, replaced a moment later by Neal’s midnight tones.

_“Peter, I was hoping to hear from you.”_ His voice sent frissons of lust skittering down Peter’s spine. “Did you sleep well last night?” There was amusement in Neal’s words.

Peter’s breath caught before he stammered, “Yeah…I…uh…did.” _Wait…did he know…?_

_“Because I didn’t want you to stay up worrying about my shirt. My drycleaner assured me she could get the stain out.”_

“Oh… _OH_ …good.” Peter mentally slapped himself. There was no way Neal would have had any idea about his dream. Peter was just reading way too much into things. “So….”

_“So…”_ Neal’s voice was a lazy drawl. _“Can I assume you’re calling to take me up on my invitation to have dinner?”_

“Yeah, I think so.” Peter hissed as Elizabeth kicked his shin. He scowled at her gesture that, if he read it correctly, meant _Grow some balls, Burke._ “Actually, yes. I would enjoy having dinner with you, Neal.”

Elizabeth grinned at him.

He heard Neal chuckle. _“That was a very forceful answer.”_

“I had help,” Peter replied dryly. “My assistant Elizabeth is very – insistent.”

_“Well then I’ll just have to thank her for encouraging you.”_ Peter heard the click of computer keys. _“So when are you available. I’m at your mercy.”_

Peter thought about his calendar. He did _not_ think about Neal splayed out under him, hands locked in Peter’s grip as he thrust into him. Not at all.

“Uh…how about tomorrow evening?” Peter raised an eyebrow to Elizabeth in question. She nodded. “Yeah, tomorrow works for me.”

_“Perfect. Any preference on food?”_

“Nothing I can’t pronounce.” Peter took a drink of his tea. 

Neal’s laugh was rich. _“Then how about Peter Luger’s? I’ve been in the mood for a good, rare steak.”_

“Peter Luger’s sounds great. Is seven o’clock good?” Peter tucked the phone into his shoulder as he began cleaning up lunch.

_“Absolutely. I’ll pick you up.”_

“You don’t need to. I can drive myself.” He placed the plates in the sink and leaned against the counter.

_“No, I want to._ Peter heard Neal chuckle softly. _“Truthfully, it’s a purely selfish reason. I just got a new car and I haven’t had a chance to really drive it. You’d be doing me a favor by letting me indulge a bit.”_

Peter had to smile. He knew the allure of a new toy, whether it was a computer or a car. “In that case, I’d be happy to have you pick me up.”

_“Excellent, I assume you live near La Belle Café?”_

“Close by.” Peter gave Neal his address. 

_“I’ll pick you up at seven then.”_ Peter heard Neal pause. _“And Peter…just so you know. I’m really looking forward to spending time with you. See you tomorrow.”_

Neal hung up before Peter could respond. Putting the phone on the counter, he blew out a breath and looked at Elizabeth. 

“Well?” She was vibrating in her seat.

“As you heard, I have a date with Neal Caffrey. He’s coming to pick me up at seven tomorrow in his new car and we’re going to Peter Luger’s for dinner.” 

Elizabeth pumped her fist. “Yes! It’s about time you got laid!”

“El, it’s just dinner.” Peter couldn’t help grinning and he walked over to Elizabeth and gave her a hug. “I’m not expecting anything more than a great meal with what seems like a nice guy.”

“Yes, but you never know…” She widened her eyes comically and he laughed.

“I’ll have you know, I’m not that kind of boy.” He let her go, swiped an apple from the bowl on the island and headed towards the office.

“No, but you could be.” She darted past him and smacked him on the ass as she ran laughing into the other room.

Grinning, Peter sauntered after her. Things were looking up. Now all he needed was a good story. And something told him that it was close at hand.

Peter was frantic. Neal was coming to pick him up in a half hour and he was standing in front of his closet in a towel, phone to his ear.

“Elizabeth, pick up the phone, pick up the phone,” he muttered, flipping through shirts and slacks.

_“The Armani.”_ No ‘hello’ or ‘this is Elizabeth.’ All she said was, ‘The Armani.’

“Isn’t that too formal for Peter Luger’s?” Peter moved a few hangers to reveal the black pinstriped wool suit Elizabeth had insisted he buy last year. She had taken him to the Armani store on Fifth Avenue and had it custom fitted to his build.

_“Maybe for Peter Luger’s, but not for your date with Neal.”_

He could hear a microwave humming in the background and what sounded like popcorn popping. 

_“You need to look incredibly hot and that suit is perfect.”_

He took the suit out of the closet and laid it on the bed. “Ok, Armani it is, then. Shirt?”

_“The Thomas Pink striped one I got you for that book signing. Oh, and the Axbridge purple tie.”_ The microwave beeped. _“Hang on – popcorn.”_ He heard the rustle of the bag ripping and the popcorn pouring into the bowl.

Peter added the shirt and tie to the suit on the bed. He had to admit Elizabeth had impeccable taste. The subtle purple stripe in the shirt and the deep purple color of the tie went very well with the black suit.

“Thanks.” He went to his dresser and grabbed a pair of black socks. “I think I’m good now.”

_“I bought you new underwear. It’s in a bag in the top drawer of your dresser.”_ Elizabeth’s voice was muffled by the popcorn. _“And don’t give me any flack about it. If, by some remote chance, you get laid tonight, you don’t want to be wearing old underwear.”_

“Yes, mom.” Peter rummaged around in the drawer until he found the bag Elizabeth was talking about. He pulled out the underwear and almost choked when he read the label. “MANSILK?”

_“Don’t judge until you try them on.”_ The television volume in the background increased. _“Now, I’m going to enjoy my movie. I want details in the morning.”_

Peter smiled. “Yes, dear.” 

_“Good. And Peter?”_ He could hear Elizabeth’s return smile through the phone. _“Relax and have fun, okay? You deserve it.”_

“I’ll try.” Peter hung up the phone and looked at the underwear Elizabeth bought him. They were silk trunk boxer briefs in black. He took them out of the package and rubbed the fabric through his fingers. _Nice._

Dropping the towel onto the floor, he put them on, adjusted himself and took a look in the mirror. 

The briefs looked great and felt better. Tight around his ass, the silk skimmed his thighs. The pouch framed his penis, enhancing the look of his length, the softness feeling like a caress against his balls. 

As he walked toward the bed to finish dressing, he could feel the fabric slide across his skin. The slight movement rubbed him just so, teasing his cock into subtle arousal. Nothing overt – just enough to send tendrils of electricity throughout his body. 

Elizabeth got a gold star. And an assignment to buy several more pairs.

Peter checked the clock. _Shit_ Fifteen minutes and who knew whether Neal would be early. Dressing quickly, he dug into his cherrywood valet and grabbed the silver cufflinks at the bottom. Moments later he was tugging at his cuffs and checking the line of his shirt. 

Slipping his feet into the black Ferragamos he’d pulled out of his closet earlier, he tied the laces then headed to the bathroom to comb his hair and splash on a bit of Chanel Allure Homme.

Peter’s phone chimed. _Be there in 5._

Neal.

Peter felt like he was a teenager again, waiting for his first boyfriend to pick him up from his parent’s house.

His heart rate picked up and he couldn’t stop grinning. For a moment, he let himself bask in the thought that he was going out with a cute boy. 

Shaking his head, he brought himself back to reality. He and Neal were going to dinner and that was all. If he kept his expectations low, he wouldn’t be disappointed. 

Peter slipped his arms into his jacket and put the final touch on his attire – the vintage Timex watch his father had given him for his high school graduation. Elizabeth might dress him in the haute couture that she thought he deserved, but the watch was purely him.

Taking one last look in the mirror, Peter had to admit – the look was impressive. 

“Not bad, Burke,” he murmured, turning around and looking over his shoulder. Satisfied, Peter took the stairs at a quick pace. Grabbing his coat, he told Satchmo to behave and opened the door.

What he saw took his breath away.

Neal, framed in the glow of the streetlamp, had one foot on the bottom step. Under the black cashmere coat, a beautifully fitted silver grey suit graced his frame and the deep blue shirt and tie set his eyes glowing. His tousled hair was lifted by a faint breeze, a stray lock curling against his forehead.

He was beautiful.

Neal’s face broke into a huge grin as he looked up at Peter. “Hi.” His voice was soft.

Peter couldn’t help but grin back. “Hi.”

“Ready?” Neal gestured to the automobile at the curb. 

A sapphire blue BMW x4 convertible with the top up was waiting for them. Peter had looked at that model when he’d gotten his first big advance, but couldn’t justify owning a vehicle in Manhattan. 

“Nice car,” he commented as Neal pressed the clicker to unlock the car. Peter inclined his head when Neal opened the door for him, and had to chuckle when he saw the interior. Grey leather. He was beginning to see a pattern.

“So did you get the shirt to match your car?” he asked as Neal climbed in on the driver’s side.

“Funny.” Grinning, Neal pressed the button to start the vehicle. “And no, I didn’t get the shirt to match my car.” Peter watched Neal’s graceful hands shift the car into gear and steer them out into the early evening traffic. “I got the car to match the shirt.”

“Seriously?”

Neal glanced at him, eyebrow raised. “What do you think?”

Peter knew he was blushing when Neal laughed. “Actually, like I told you on the phone, this car is one of the few indulgences I allow myself. Kind of silly for Manhattan, I know, but I couldn’t help it.” 

Neal sounded excited. It made Peter feel bad about his comment. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to tease.” 

Neal put his hand on Peter’s and squeezed gently. “Don’t be sorry, Peter. You’re welcome to tease me any time.”

Peter didn’t think they were talking about the car anymore.

The warmth of Neal’s palm against Peter’s fingers sent his imagination travelling south, and for a fleeting moment he wondered what it would feel like to have that hand curled around his cock.

Peter shifted discreetly, trying to adjust for the tightness in his clothing, hoping that Neal wouldn’t notice. 

“So – tell me a bit about yourself.” Anything to diffuse the charged atmosphere in the car. 

Neal took his hand off Peter’s and returned it to the steering wheel. “I run a club. As I’m sure you know.” 

“Yeah.” Peter fell silent. He didn’t want to come across as unsophisticated, but at the same time he wasn’t sure how to ask more questions without embarrassing himself further. For the first time in a long while, his journalistic instincts failed him.

Neal seemed to understand and take pity on him. “It’s a specialty club for individuals and couples to expand and explore their passions.”

“Sounds like the website.” 

“Ah, so you admit you’ve checked me out.” Neal’s voice was warm, with a definite hint of amusement. 

“Purely research.” Peter defended himself half-heartedly. “But yes. Elizabeth made sure of it.”

“Elizabeth?” Neal’s question had an underlying current that Peter couldn’t quite identify. “And she is…?” 

“My assistant.” Peter felt the need to clarify Elizabeth’s relationship to him. “And my best friend. She recognized the name of your club.”

“Really.” Neal’s tone was intentionally noncommittal.

“Yeah. Seems that she’s interested in what your club has to offer.” 

“And what about you, Peter? Are you interested in what the club offers?”

Before Peter could answer, Neal slammed on the brakes, narrowly missing a rear end collision with a Mercedes that had cut in front of them. They both pitched forward, seatbelts tightening across their bodies.

“You okay?” Neal quickly changed lanes and sped by the other car. 

“I’m fine.” Peter looked at him and smiled slightly. “Perils of driving in Manhattan.”

“Very true.” Neal didn’t speak, his concentration solely on the traffic. Peter mentally braced himself for Neal to repeat his question. What came out of Neal’s mouth surprised him. “So tell me what’s it’s like being a best-selling author.”

“You know I write?” 

Neal’s quiet chuckle sent frissons of muted lust down Peter’s spine. “You’re not the only one who knows how to use Google, Peter.”

_Of course._ Peter returned the chuckle. “Right.”

“So…tell me.” The subtle coaxing in Neal’s tone was seductive and Peter found himself telling Neal about his days as a reporter for the Times and how he wound up writing gothic horror fiction as a way to come to terms with the horrific events he reported on when he was embedded with American troops overseas.

Before long they were in a lively discussion about the role of horror fiction in movies and television. Peter was startled when Neal pulled up to the restaurant – he had been enjoying himself so much that the time had flown by. 

As they entered the restaurant, the hostess, Teresa, greeted Neal as if he were an old friend. They were whisked to their table in the corner by the window. Peter had to admit he was a bit impressed. He’d been here before but never had they been seated so quickly.

Neal took the opportunity to order them both dry martinis, commenting, “I hope you don’t mind. The wine’s good here, but the martinis are phenomenal.”

“No worries, I can tell I’m in capable hands.” Peter realized just how that remark might sound and hoped Neal wouldn’t spin it off into something Peter was not ready to explore.

_Yet._ That little voice squirreled its way into the front of his brain and set up permanent camp in his thoughts. 

Neal gazed at Peter with what could be described as hunger. “You’re not making this easy, Peter. You know that, right?” 

“What do you mean?” Peter knew just what Neal meant, but forcing him to say the words would level the playing field. They were playing a game, one where only Neal knew the rules. 

Peter felt the heat radiating off of Neal’s body as he leaned and murmured his reply. “You open your door dressed in Armani, smelling amazing,” the air moved as Neal inhaled. “Long legs spread out in the front seat of my car, overwhelming the space just by being. You drop comments and innuendoes so easily that I can’t tell whether you are that innocent or that calculating.”

Neal’s mouth was millimeters away from Peter’s ear, warm breath tickling the hairs on his neck.

“Either way, you intrigue me.” Peter swore he felt Neal’s lips touch the smooth flesh behind his earlobe, but when he turned towards the other man, Neal was sitting back in his chair smiling at him. 

The rest of the evening progressed in the same fashion. One moment Neal would be laughing at something Peter said, the next, his eyes would flash with want and promises. The subtle way he would invade Peter’s space, then pull back, drove Peter’s senses completely off kilter.

The steaks came, were eaten, and plates removed, but if someone asked Peter about the meal he wouldn’t be able to tell them about it. His attention was fully on Neal.

Neal teased him, suggesting that they split a dessert - maybe a piece of the restaurant's famed pecan pie, ‘mitt schlag’. Peter blushed again, Neal had a way of making even whipped cream sound dirty.

Peter had to decline; he was too full from the rich meat, and frankly, on edge and off balance.

“Then how about an after dinner drink?” Neal asked as they argued over the bill. “There’s a little hole in the wall just down the block that serves excellent brandies and cognacs. We could walk there.”

“Sounds good.” Anything to put some distance between the two of them. Peter needed fresh air to clear his head. Neal was overwhelming him and he was afraid that if they spent any more time in close quarters, Peter would do something stupid. 

“Perfect.” They walked to the register where Neal pulled out his wallet and handed the hostess a debit card. Nestled in one of the slots was a black credit card that Peter swore was an American Express. _He_ didn’t even have one of those. They were by invitation only and the amount of money you had to spend to get one was almost obscene. Neal had it tucked in his wallet like it was nothing. 

Signing the slip, Neal returned the card to its location. “Ready?”

“Lead the way.” The two men exited the restaurant. The air was chilly but perfect for a walk. The slight distance between them helped Peter compose himself. 

The space – for lack of a better term – was down the block and around the corner. There was a small, faded sign by the door proclaiming it ‘Channing’s’ and listing the hours of operation.

When Neal opened the door for Peter, music spilled out into the street. Entering, Peter saw a stunning woman heading up a small female trio of piano, bass and drums.

He paused for a moment, listening to her voice, before he felt Neal’s hand on the small of his back. Fingers spread, there was a subtle caress in the pressure as Neal’s breath fanned past his ear.

“Brooklyn’s best kept secret.” The hairs on the back of Peter’s neck stood up at the sensuality of Neal’s voice in that simple comment. “Shall we sit?” The pressure of Neal’s hand increased, the initial caress sliding across the top of Peter’s ass to the ridge of his hip, then disappearing as Neal brushed past him, heading towards a secluded table.

Peter followed, taking in every nuance of the place and filing it away in his writer’s brain. His attention was captured by a display of vintage liquor bottles and he didn’t realize that he had stopped to stare until he heard Neal chuckle next to him.

“Interesting display, isn’t it?” Neal’s voice took on the sexy, amused tone that Peter was coming to identify with him. 

Peter blushed. “Sorry, occupational hazard.” 

“Actually, it’s fascinating.” Neal led them to the table in the corner. “I can see your writer’s mind cataloguing and filing the details away.”

They sat. Peter was certain that Neal intentionally moved his chair so he would be in his space. He took a deep breath and prepared himself for another onslaught of Neal’s game.

“Yeah. It’s habit. Elizabeth tells me I need to shut it off and relax, but I’ve never been able to do that.”

“Your Elizabeth sounds like a wise woman.” Neal motioned to a server. “We want the ‘95 A. de Fussigny Fine Champagne XO, please.” He turned back to Peter. “So tell me about her. You said she recognized my club?”

“Um…” Peter wasn’t sure how much he should share about Elizabeth’s interests.

“It’s okay, Peter. I don’t need to know her kinks. I’m just interested in how people learn about the club. For marketing purposes.” Neal leaned in and touched the top of Peter’s hand, caressing the knuckles with his thumb. “Plus, she’s important to you, and since I’m bound and determined to learn everything there is to know about you, she’s important to me.”

Neal’s eyes locked with Peter’s, trapping him in their seductive gaze. Peter was lost. He wanted to kiss Neal, to get down on his knees and worship his cock in front of all the other patrons, and at the same time to run, fast, and put as much distance between them as he could.

The server returning with the cognac broke Peter out of his pornographic fantasy. When Neal took his hand from Peter’s he shivered, feeling uncomfortably bereft from the lack of physical contact. 

“Try it. It’s one of my favorites.” 

The cognac. That was safe. Peter sipped, and the caramel and pepper essence exploded across his tongue. The liquor warmed his body, languid and curling. Reminding him of Neal’s touch.

Okay, maybe the cognac wasn’t so safe.

“You were going to tell me about Elizabeth.” Neal was attentive but not eager, however Peter could feel an almost electric intensity to his interest. 

Intoxicated by the mix of the liquor and Neal, Peter couldn’t recall the exact details of their conversation. He thought there was mention of how he and Elizabeth met, of baseball and books, of his failed relationship with Daniel, but the details kept escaping him.

He did remember the music, though, the smoky sounds of the jazz trio cutting through the ambiance, the singer’s sultry voice caressing the words of one of his favorite songs. 

_You go to my head_  
And you linger like a haunting refrain  
And I find you spinning round in my brain  
Like the bubbles in a glass of champagne… 

He swore he heard Neal’s voice, slipping into his ear, singing along with the music, but when he looked at the man, all he saw was a smile. 

_You go to my head_  
Like a sip of sparkling burgundy brew  
And I find the very mention of you  
Like the kicker in a julep or two…

They finished the cognac as the band wrapped up its set, and Peter waved off Neal's offer of a second glass. His head wasn't so much buzzing – as a former war correspondent, he could certainly hold his alcohol - but he felt like he was vibrating. Like a violin string.

And once again, he was struck by the idea of being in the hands of a master player.

"I think it's time we headed home." Neal's voice was smoky, an intoxicating cloud.

They left the bar and walked back to the car. The night air did wonders for clearing out his brain and he almost wanted to ask Neal to put the top down.

The drive back to Peter's was made in comfortable silence and anticipation. Neal insisted on walking him to his door, saying that a gentleman never just dropped his date off at the curb.

As they reached the door, Peter realized he had to make a decision. Should he invite Neal in or say goodnight.

Digging for his keys, Peter knew he was stalling. He also knew that Neal knew he was stalling. _This is how Julius Caesar must have felt right before crossing the Rubicon,_ he thought. 

“Thank you. I had a great evening.” He needed just a little more time to decide.

“Peter.” 

Peter was slammed up against the door and Neal was suddenly _there._ In his space, pressing up against him. Chest to chest, legs interlocked, Neal’s arms trapping him. He scent permeated Peter’s senses, igniting a primal lust that made him dizzy. His cock, hard and aching against Neal’s thigh. Neal’s mouth, whispering words that were past the point of pornographic.

It was delicious and Peter wanted more.

“Please…” The word was wrenched from his lips.

“Please what, Peter?” Neal purred.

“Please…” Peter repeated with a moan. “…need…” Unable to speak coherently in his haze of want, Peter pulled Neal closer.

“Do you want me to come inside?”

“Yes…oh God, yes!” That’s what he needed. Neal in his house, naked, fucking him. 

“I want to come in, Peter, but I don’t think that would be a wise decision.” Neal’s lips were a hairs-breath from Peter’s. “Because if I did, then I wouldn’t be able to stop at just this…”

Neal’s kiss was soft, almost worshipful. Nothing like the words that had come from his mouth moments earlier, or the glances and innuendoes at dinner. His hands holding Peter’s face, thumbs caressing his jaw, a hint of sweetness from the earlier cognac on his tongue.

Peter was in freefall with no parachute.

Neal’s mouth sucking on his bottom lip, teeth grazing then pulling away. “…and I really think I need to stop.” 

“No.” The word came out as a whine. 

"Yeah. I think I need to go." The touch of Neal’s hand was electric. "But I will see you again. You have my word." 

Peter found himself standing inside his foyer with no recollection of how he got there. Neal’s words echoed in his head.

_I will see you again…_

He felt a shiver skitter down his spine. He knew Neal meant every word he said tonight. And he didn't know whether to be thrilled or terrified....

Peter leaned against the door as he heard Neal’s car drive off, his knees weak and his cock hard. Neal made him feel things that he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in a very long time.

Pushing himself off the door, he walked slowly into the living room and opened the liquor cabinet. This called for something stronger than his usual beer. He grabbed the open bottle of Jameson’s and a glass and headed up to his bedroom.

Placing the liquor and glass on his dresser, Peter removed his cufflinks and dropped them in the cherrywood valet. Undressing to his t-shirt and boxer briefs, he hung his clothes up before returning to pour himself a glass. Downing it quickly, he hissed at the burn of the alcohol as he looked in the dresser mirror. 

What he saw conflicted him. Lips swollen, eyes dark with the remembrance of lust, hair slightly mussed – this was a different image of himself than he was used to seeing in the reflection. The little voice that was urging him to take Neal up on his unspoken offer was making pleased noises at his appearance, while the more rational part of his psyche was railing in panic. 

Another shot of the whiskey blurred his vision slightly and did nothing for his composure. Unsettled, he hurried into his bathroom. Turning on the water as hot as he could stand it, Peter stripped, stepped under the cascading water and quickly began soaping himself up. He needed to wash away the smell, the touch of Neal Caffrey. It was the only way he could make a rational decision.

Skin raw from the scrubbing, Peter turned the water temperature down to medium. He washed his hair, trading the scent of Neal’s aftershave for the sandalwood shampoo he favored. Slowly he felt himself fitting back into his own skin. Rinsing out the suds, he let the water wash away the last of the confusion.

Shutting off the water, Peter stepped out of the shower stall and began drying himself off. His mind was clear now – Neal Caffrey was a seductive fucker who he was better off not getting involved with. 

His anxiety soothed by his decision, Peter quickly dressed and climbed into bed. He picked up the Sunday Times that was on his nightstand and spent a good hour with the crossword puzzle while he let his brain churn over the story ideas he and Elizabeth had been working on.

Dotting the last ‘i’, he put the paper down and turned off the light. Stretching out under the comforter, Peter listened to the night sounds of the city. He needed to come up with a story idea soon.

Closing his eyes, he started with one of the writing exercises he used when he was stuck. Person, place, thing.

_Joe, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, a possessed Roman spear._

Peter felt himself relax.

_Serena, stage of the local community theatre, ghost of a murdered actress._

His breathing evened out. The last thought that registered…

_…a lovely lady, a rooftop apartment, Parcheesi…_

Mozzie and June were playing Parcheesi, wine glasses half full, when Neal entered his apartment. Neither one looked up as he removed his coat and hung it up.

He headed to the fridge and took out a bottle of sparkling water. Uncapping it, he leaned against the counter, taking a drink as he watched June move her last piece into the center.

“Very nice, Madam.” Mozzie tipped a metaphorical hat to her. “However, I will best you in our next game, have no doubt.” 

“I look forward to the challenge.” June leaned back and looked at him. “So, how was your evening, Neal?”

He thought about the kiss on the steps in front of Peter’s house and chose his words with care. “It was … good.”

“Just good?” He felt her studying him. “I would think that it was better than good.”

“I was cautious. It was difficult.” Neal knew that he didn’t need to say any more. June would understand.

“So…you didn’t…you know…bite him?” Mozzie had a frown on his face.

“No Moz, I didn’t bite him.” Neal pushed himself off of the kitchen counter. He could tell that Mozzie was still uncomfortable with his interest in Peter. “I do have _some_ modicum of self control.”

Neal let Mozzie’s ‘Could have fooled me’ comment go. He needed the other man to do some information gathering for him, and Mozzie in a snit was not a team player.  


Walking to the bedroom alcove, he took off his suit jacket, kicked off his shoes and undid his tie. Laying the clothes on the bed, Neal removed his cufflinks and placed them on the nightstand.

“But in answer to your question, June, it was an enjoyable evening. The steaks were delicious, as always, and Peter Burke is a very interesting man.” Neal wasn’t going to share anything more. Like how Peter moaned when Neal kissed him, how his ass felt under Neal’s hands, how easy it would have been to slip his teeth into Peter’s neck and savor him.

Neal tried not to think about how delicious Peter would taste – like dark, ripe cherries on his tongue.

Mentally shaking himself, Neal focused on what needed to be done in order to make his thoughts a reality. 

“Moz, I need for you to look into someone for me.” Unbuttoning his shirt sleeves, he rolled the cuffs back.

“I suppose.” Mozzie poured some more of the wine into his glass. Neal was certain Moz was intentionally avoiding his eyes.

Neal moved into Mozzie’s range of vision. “Please?”

“What’s in it for me?” Neal grinned at Mozzie’s statement. He knew when his friend started wheeling and dealing that he wasn’t annoyed with Neal any more.

“You can have the Barolo I just got.” Neal pulled the bottle out of the wine rack and placed it on the table. “And I’ll get you some salmon.”

“Wild Atlantic - none of that farm raised stuff.” Mozzie was examining the bottle with what looked like an unholy glee. “And I want it minced this time.”

“Done.”

Mozzie nodded in agreement. “Okay, what’s the name of the person you want me to investigate?” 

“Elizabeth Mitchell.” Neal sat down and poured the last of the open bottle of wine into his glass.

“Okay, but who is she?” Mozzie dug for his phone and began entering information.

“Peter’s personal assistant and his best friend.” Neal sipped his wine.

“And she would be the woman I saw at Burke’s door the other night?” 

“Probably. I want everything you can find out about her. Where she lives, how long she and Peter have known each other, whether they are sleeping with each other.” The thought of Peter and Elizabeth being intimate annoyed Neal. After this evening, he considered Peter his.

And he was very possessive of what was his.

“What do you plan on doing with the information once you get it?” Mozzie was watching him, waiting for a reaction. 

“She’s a major part of Peter’s life and I want to make sure she’s not going to be an obstacle.” Neal shifted in his chair, making himself more comfortable. “Plus she knows about the club, and that’s put us on Peter’s radar. I’m just trying to be cautious.”

“That’d be a first.” Mozzie’s snort was nothing short of derisive.

“Now Mozzie, be nice.” June’s voice was pleasant but firm.

“Sorry.” Mozzie’s mumbled apology was grudging but sincere.

Neal hid his smile. Mozzie could be very scathing at times, but one comment from June and he folded like a house of cards.

“Peter said she was interested in what the club has offer. Check to see if she’s ever been to any other establishments in the city.” Neal turned to June. “Once Mozzie gets the information, get a Platinum Membership invitation prepared to send to her.” 

June smiled. “I’ll have it ready on my desk for your signature.”

“Perfect.” He took her hand and kissed it.

Mozzie collected the Parcheesi set and put it away. Standing up, he drained his glass and proceeded to put on the coat and red scarf that were hanging from the back of his chair. “And on that note, I will take my leave. I’ll have your information by tomorrow afternoon, Neal. Don’t forget – minced.”  
That last comment was tossed over his shoulder as he left the apartment. 

Neal leaned back in his chair and sighed. He looked over at June. 

“So, I’m not going to ask any more questions, but from your reticence, may I assume that your evening went better than you cared to share?”

Neal flashed his patented Caffrey grin. “Ah June, you know I don’t kiss and tell.”

Her delighted laugh made him smile even brighter. Rising gracefully from her chair, she kissed him on his cheek and made her way to the door. “That I do know.”

Pausing at the entrance, she turned to him and winked. “May you have _very_ sweet dreams, Mr. Caffrey,” she teased. 

“I intend to, Ms. Ellington.”

The door closed behind her with a soft click. Neal sat quietly, his mind on Peter Burke and all the delicious possibilities. 

He definitely would be having sweet dreams tonight.

Peter had already been in his office for four hours when Elizabeth arrived.

He’d woken up groggy and disoriented, his body aching like he’d been running a marathon and his mind whirling with half remembered dreams of unknown people, slick bodies and glowing eyes.

After attempting to fall back to sleep, he gave up and got ready for work. Coffee mug in hand, he trolled the internet for ideas to spark the Muse.

Elizabeth breezed in with the daily pastry order and a look on her face that told him he was in for a round of interrogation that would rival the FBI.

He was going to play it cool and hope that she would go easy on him about last night’s evening with Neal.

Peter was not that lucky.

“So I want details.” Elizabeth plopped herself down on the edge of the desk and waved the bag of pastries in his direction.

“‘Good morning, Peter. How are you, Peter? How is your morning going, Peter?’” He sat back and took a drink of his coffee. 

She sighed. “Good morning, Peter. How are you? How’s your morning been?”

“I am fine, thank you for asking.” He grinned at her. “And my morning has been very productive.” 

“That’s good to hear.” Elizabeth kicked him lightly with her shoe. “Still want details.”

“If you give me my apple fritter, I'll _consider_ sharing the details."

“You are an evil man.” Sliding off the desk, she tossed him the bag and sat in her chair. “Evil.”

“And you are impatient and nosy.” Taking a bite of his pastry, he grinned at her.

“Can you blame me? I want to hear everything.” She stirred Splenda into her coffee. “So spill.”

Peter considered what to tell her. For the first time in their relationship, he was hesitant to share details of something. 

Elizabeth seemed to pick up on that in the preternatural way she had. “What happened, Peter?” Her voice was concerned. 

“Nothing…nothing.” A wave of annoyance flooded over him. He loved Elizabeth dearly but he still needed to work out what happened last night in his mind before he told her anything.

Plus there were parts that were too raw – too private – to share with anyone.

He looked over to see her waiting, a curious expression on her face.

He needed to tell her something or she would nag him all day. “It was an interesting evening.” 

Peter told her about Neal’s suit and the meal. He didn’t tell her about Neal’s cat and mouse game. He told her about the car and the shirt. He didn’t tell her about the out-of-control arousal and the abject terror he felt throughout the evening. He told her about the drive home.

He didn’t tell her about Neal’s kiss. 

“Sounds like you had a good time.” She smiled and wriggled in her seat. “So when’s your next date?”

_Next date?_ Peter hadn’t even recovered from the first one. “Um…not sure.” 

“You didn’t make plans?”

“No, not really.” Unless you could call Neal’s statement of ‘I will see you again’, plans, Peter thought.

“Peter, why not?”

“It just didn’t come up.” Peter was feeling trapped. Last night, he was certain of his decision not to see Neal again, but today -. 

He needed to change the subject. “Look, last night was fun, but I need to work on a plot for the new book. That’s got to be my focus.” Getting up from his desk, he paced the room. “I did some web surfing this morning and got some good ideas but nothing that said ‘write me.’”

“Okay, I won’t dig anymore.” Elizabeth sipped her coffee. “But if Neal calls you for another date, you need to say yes.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “I’ll think about it. Now can we work on book ideas, please?”

“Sure. What did you come up with this morning?” Elizabeth pulled out a pen and legal pad. 

“It’s more like what I decided I didn’t want. No werewolves, possessions, or crazy people locked up in attics.” Peter ticked those items off on his fingers.

“Got it. No crazy people.” Elizabeth jotted down notes.

“Cute.”

“Yes I am, thank you for noticing.” She winked at him before becoming serious. “Peter, we’ve gone over this stuff for two days and nothing’s made you happy. What are you looking for?”

“That’s just it. I don’t know.” Peter blew out a frustrated breath. “I just can’t put my finger on it.”

“Okay.” Elizabeth put her pen down. “Let’s do this. Close your eyes and tell me what your perfect book would be.”

Peter did as she instructed. “It would start out simply. Maybe a chance meeting between two people…”

“Go on.” 

Peter heard scribbling. “One would have a dark secret that would be tempting to the other when they found out…”

“Would it frighten them…turn them on...?” The cadence in Elizabeth’s voice was hypnotic. 

“Both.” Peter whispered the word.

“What would the secret be?”

Peter didn’t know. And that was the problem. He opened his eyes to find himself facing his shelf of gothic fiction.

He scanned the titles. _The Turn of the Screw, Frankenstein, The Castle of Otranto._ Classics of the genre. Each with their own twists and turns.

His eyes fell to the end of the shelf. Tucked together was his dog eared copy of _Dracula_ and Oscar Wilde’s _The Picture of Dorian Gray._ Fragments of his dream from the other night coalesced into an idea.

“I’ve got it!” Peter whirled around to face Elizabeth. “Listen to this.”

He told her the story of a young man who painted a portrait that gave him immortality, but in order to keep being immortal, he needed to drink human blood.

“It’s a fusion of sorts of _Dracula _and _Dorian Gray._ ” Peter was excited. He hurried over to the white board and jotted down thoughts as they came. “How does this sound? His family has a chronic illness - a hemophilia-like syndrome, maybe - and he's grasping at straws to stay alive.”__

__“Ohh, I like that!” Elizabeth’s eyes were practically glowing with excitement._ _

__“Yeah. It works.” Peter felt his pulse race. His gut was telling him that this was it – the story he’d been looking for. “Wait, wait! How about this? Set the prologue in 1890 when _Dorian Gray_ was published. The guy, let’s call him Nicholas, has no hope, he'll do anything to stay alive. He walks past a bookstore and sees the book. He’d know what the book was about because it had been a sensation when it was serialized.”_ _

__“Go on.” Elizabeth was writing furiously, trying to keep up with his inspiration._ _

__“So he buys the book, reads it, and decides that he needs to try what Dorian Gray did – make a pact with the Devil.” Peter felt the ideas flowing. “But the Devil twists it so he has to drink human blood to keep the immortality.”_ _

__“I like that.” Elizabeth read her notes. “Here’s an idea. What if, to gain the immortality, Nicholas has to paint the portrait with his blood?”_ _

__“Yes!” Peter added that to the list. “He mixes it in the paint. And he has to touch it up occasionally or he’ll die.” He clapped his hands in delight at how easily it was coming together._ _

__“Peter, this is fantastic!” Elizabeth jumped up and hugged him. “I have a really good feeling about this book.”_ _

__“Me too.”_ _

__For the next several hours they brainstormed – discussing ideas, discarding the ones that didn’t work, saving the ones that did._ _

__“Okay, I need some coffee.” Peter ran his hand through his hair. “Want anything?”_ _

__“I could use some water.” Elizabeth was transcribing their notes onto the computer._ _

__“Great.” Peter headed into the kitchen. Opening up the cupboard, he took down a mug. He set up the Keurig up for a cup of Caribou Obsidian and, as he did every time, he sent a thank you to the editor who’d bought him the machine after discovering that Peter couldn’t brew a cup of decent coffee to save his life. Opening up the refrigerator door to get a bottle of water for Elizabeth, he decided he was hungry. Soon all the fixings for a roast beef and cheese sandwich were spread out over the counter._ _

__While he was preparing his food, he heard his cell phone ring._ _

__“Can you answer that?” he called to Elizabeth. Quickly making two sandwiches and fixing his coffee, he picked up the water and returned to the office._ _

__“Friday at 7 p.m.? No, there’s nothing on his calendar.” Elizabeth had his Outlook up._ _

__“Who is it?” he mouthed, handing her the water bottle._ _

__Elizabeth put her hand over the mouthpiece. “Neal Caffrey.”_ _

__Neal. _Shit._ Peter sat down behind his desk. “What’s he want?”_ _

__“Um, another date.”_ _

__“Tell him I’m busy.” Peter didn’t want to have to deal with this right now. Or ever._ _

__“I, uh, already told him you were free Friday night.” Elizabeth had the grace to look embarrassed._ _

__“Great. Give me the phone.” Taking the phone, he put a smile in his voice. “Neal, how are you?”_ _

___”I’m fine, Peter.”_ Neal’s voice was amused. Peter had the sneaking suspicion that somehow Neal had heard their exchange._ _

__“Good, good.” Peter wasn’t sure what to say next._ _

___“So, I was asking Elizabeth whether you were free Friday night.”_ _ _

__“Yeah, I heard that.” Peter didn’t know how to get out of seeing Neal on Friday. Maybe he could beg off in a day or two. That would work._ _

___“Would you be interested in spending the evening together?”_ _ _

__Peter shivered. Neal’s words sounded totally innocent but carried an echo of seduction._ _

__“Sure. Why don’t you come over for dinner,” Peter couldn’t believe what he’d just said. How the hell was he supposed to cancel if he invited Neal to his house?_ _

___“That sounds fantastic. Should I bring anything?”_ _ _

__“Nope. Is pot roast okay?” _God, he was digging himself in deeper.__ _

___“Pot roast sounds delicious. See you Friday at seven.”_ Neal disconnected the call._ _

__Peter put the phone down on the desk._ _

__“Well?” Elizabeth looked expectantly at him._ _

__“Neal’s coming over for pot roast Friday at seven.”_ _

__“That’s great! I’ll make my Tiramusu for dessert.” He felt her eyes on him. “Peter, you’re frowning. Don’t you want to see Neal again?”_ _

__He thought about his reaction to Neal – the way the pendulum of his emotions swung back and forth. In the daylight it all seemed so silly. Neal was a gorgeous man that was interested in him. That was all._ _

__“Yeah, I do.” If he repeated it to himself enough times, he just might believe it._ _

____

For the next two days, Peter waffled between keeping his date with Neal and cancelling, citing some kind of made up emergency. It got so bad that Elizabeth refused to speak to him for most of Thursday, telling him that she was going shoe shopping and he’d better get over himself by the time she got back.

Staring at his computer, Peter realized that she was right. He was winding himself up for no apparent reason. It was just a date.

He really needed to stop worrying and work on his book. The basic idea was set – now he just needed to work on characterization, scene selection and create his road map of the story.

Pulling up a blank document, Peter set his timer for thirty minutes in preparation for outlining Nicholas, his main character. Pressing the start button, he immersed himself in creating his protagonist.

A half hour later, Peter was staring at the words on the page. Nicholas had come to life – frighteningly so.

_Nicholas Halden, 35, oldest of three brothers. Heir to the Halden railroad fortune. Family has what would now be known as Von Willebrands Disease. (Type 3). Brothers and mother have died of it._

_Tall, slender, dark hair, blue eyes. Moustache and goatee – handsome. Attractive to women and men. Well-educated, boarding school as a youth – Harvard education…_

The outline continued, but Peter was trapped by the description. Tall, dark, blue-eyed. 

_Neal._

_Fuck._

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off his burgeoning headache. His obsession with Neal was bleeding over into his work. 

Dragging the keyboard onto his lap, Peter changed the hair color to blond and the eyes to green. The hair to auburn and the eyes to brown. Then to black hair and grey eyes.

Nothing felt right.

Sighing, he returned to his original description. No matter what he did, Neal was in his mind as to how Nicholas would look, speak and act. 

Maybe the date Friday night wouldn’t be such a bad thing after all. He could observe Neal and use his mannerisms for Nicholas. 

Feeling like he finally had a handle on things, Peter put his keyboard back on the desk and started typing.

Elizabeth made sure his house was clean for his date. While he appreciated her effort, he drew the line at changing the sheets on his bed.

“El, I’m not going to sleep with him.” He stood in the doorway to his bedroom.

“You don’t know that.” She picked up a pillow and began to remove the case.

“El, stop.” Peter walked over to her, took the pillow from her hands and slipped it back into the fabric. “I DO know that. I don’t know him well enough to take that step.”

He tossed the pillow on the bed and hugged her. “I know you mean well and you want me to have someone in my life, other than you –.”

She grinned at his comment.

“- but I need to do it on my terms.” He kissed her on the forehead. “Now help me fix my bed, woman!” Slapping her on her ass, he straightened the comforter.

“Smart ass. And I’m only doing this because I love you.” Elizabeth tucked the sheet under the pillows. 

“I know you do. And I know you worry.” Peter smiled at her. “I promise I won't turn into a cranky old man who sits in front of the television with my hand down my pants.”

“Pinky swear?” She held out her hand.

“Yes, silly, pinky swear.” He linked their fingers.

“Good.” She checked her watch. “Crap. I need to start working on the tirimasu. And _you_ need to start on your world-famous pot roast.”

Working in the kitchen with Elizabeth was always a treat, Peter thought. There was music and wine and laughter as they prepared the dinner.

Now that he had a fixed idea of where to put Neal in his mind, Peter was allowing himself to enjoy the anticipation of seeing him again. 

He even indulged in a bit of fantasy as he sliced the vegetables. He and Neal out to dinner, discussing current events. Attending a book release party. Making out on his couch.

The last one had him blushing and laughing at himself. Laughing because that was such an old-fashioned thought, _making out._ Blushing because he knew that they would be doing more than just making out.

“Do I want to know what you’re thinking?” Elizabeth finished stirring the rum into the mascarpone cheese.

“No, not really.” Peter tossed the onions into the olive oil to sauté them. “Wouldn’t want to offend your delicate sensibilities.”

“Must be about sex then.” Elizabeth stole a piece of carrot. 

“Is everything about sex with you?” Peter leaned in to taste the tiramisu mixture. “Yum.” 

“Pretty much. And stop stealing.” Elizabeth whacked him on the knuckles with the spoon. “Go finish your roast.” 

“Ow.” Peter rubbed his hand. Turning back to his onions, he rescued them before they burned.

Soon the house smelled delicious. Peter put together a quick salad and stored it in the fridge before they headed to the office to do a bit more work.

He got several more character outlines done before Elizabeth shooed him upstairs to shower and change.

“Neal’s going to be here in about forty-five minutes. I’ll set the table and check the roast,” she said, pushing him towards the stairs. “Besides, I still have to whip the crème and shave the chocolate for the top.”

“You sure I can’t help with anything?” 

“I’m sure – go get ready. Wear your black slacks and the black Ralph Lauren. Open collar,” she called as he headed up the stairs. 

Peter quickly showered and dressed, making sure he used the cologne he’d worn when he went out with Neal the evening before. Because he liked it. Not because it turned Neal on. 

He rooted around in his valet box but could only locate one of the cufflinks he wanted to wear. Figuring Elizabeth could find it, he hurried down the stairs.

“El, have you seen my… _Neal_ …” He stopped short.

Neal was in the kitchen with Elizabeth. He was wearing slim grey trousers, tailored to hug the curve of his ass. His black silk shirt, the sleeves rolled up to show his forearms, accentuated the deep blue of his silk brocade vest. 

_Sex on legs._

The thought filled Peter’s mind as his mouth dried up and his cock got hard. The little voice that seemed to appear every time Peter was with Neal gleefully exclaimed, _and you could have that._

“Neal..you’re…” Peter managed to get out.

“Early, I know.” Neal grinned sheepishly. “I wasn’t sure what the traffic would be like and I didn’t want to keep you waiting.”

“Okay.” Peter was at a loss for words.

“What were you looking for?” Elizabeth was adding a bit of rum and sugar to the whipping crème. 

“My silver and black cufflink.” 

“Actually, if I could suggest?” Neal motioned for Peter to come closer. Taking his sleeve, Neal folded it up. “There – I like that better.” He did the same for Peter’s other sleeve. Leaning in, Neal whispered, “and ‘your Neal’? Absolutely.”

It took a moment for Peter to bring his brain back online after Neal’s comment.

He took the safe road – “So, I see you’ve met Elizabeth.”

“Yes, she graciously invited me in.” Neal smiled at Elizabeth and Peter felt something cold squeeze his chest. That was _his_ smile. He didn’t want Neal sharing that with Elizabeth.

“I couldn’t just leave him standing on the stoop.” Elizabeth smoothed the whipped crème onto the tiramisu. “That would be rude.”

“So I sort of came in and made myself at home.” Another smile, this time aimed at Peter. “I did bring wine though.” He gestured to a bottle of Barolo on the counter.

“And I’ll be out of your way as soon as I put this up.” Elizabeth put the dessert in the fridge. “There’s a bit of crème left, Peter. Want a taste?”

“I think I’ll wait for after dinner.” 

“Neal?” Elizabeth swiped through the crème with her finger and held it up.

“Sure.”

Peter watched as Neal cupped her hand with his. He opened his mouth and licked the whipped crème off before sucking her finger between his lips.

He was staring at Peter, their eyes locked, Neal promising things with his gaze, his actions.

Peter broke first, looking away and straightening the silverware on the table.

“Mmmm, Elizabeth, that’s delicious.” Neal let go of her hand. 

“Thank you, Neal.” Elizabeth put the bowl in the sink. “Peter, I’ve got a couple things to run past you before I leave.” She motioned to the office. 

Peter knew that there was nothing they needed to discuss – Elizabeth wanted to talk to him privately.

“Why don’t I open the wine and let it breathe while you two finish up.” Neal picked up the bottle. “Just show me where the opener and the glasses are.”

“Let me get them for you.” Peter handed Neal the wine opener and got down two glasses from the cupboard. “We’ll be right back.”

They entered the office and Peter closed the door. “Okay, what’s on your mind?”

“Oh my god, Peter, he’s stunning!” Elizabeth whirled around as soon as they were alone. “I can’t believe you were questioning a second date.”

“Yeah, well looks aren’t everything.” Peter thought back to Neal’s intensity and his own potential lack of control.

“They can’t hurt. Wow.” Elizabeth fanned herself with her hand. “Just the thought of what’s under that black silk shirt is making me -.”

“El!” Peter didn’t want to know what was going on in her mind. “Can I go have my date now?”

“Yes, dear.” She hugged him. Stepping back, she dropped her humor. “I think he’ll be good for you, Peter. Give him a chance.”

“He got a second date, El. That’s more than most get.”

“True. Now go have fun. I’ll let myself out.” She picked up her coat and left the room, calling a ‘goodbye, Neal’ as she closed the front door behind her.

Peter returned to the kitchen to find that Neal had taken the pot roast out and arranged it on a platter with the vegetables.

“The timer went off and I didn’t want it to get dry,” he explained. 

“Oh, thanks.” Peter had to chuckle at how Neal managed to make himself perfectly at home. Like he’d been coming over to Peter’s house for ages. “Sorry about having to take care of stuff in the office.”

“It’s okay, Peter. Elizabeth had to let you know what she thought about me.” Neal smiled as he opened the refrigerator door and took out the salad.

“Yeah, well…” Peter took the salad from Neal and placed it on the table. Moving around the other man, he grabbed salad dressing from the door. “She can be a bit of a mother hen.”

“It’s understandable. She cares about you and wants to see you happy.” Sliding past Peter, Neal brought the pot roast to the table.

That simple movement brought Peter up short. There they were, in his kitchen, moving around each other as if they had been doing it all their lives. It unnerved him.

“So, what was her opinion of me?” Neal leaned against the counter and smiled at him.

“She thought you were hot, and couldn’t understand why I was hesitant to go out with you again.” Peter needed to say that – to put a bit of distance between them.

“And what do you think, Peter?” Neal pealed himself off the counter and walked over to Peter, subtly invading his space. “Is that your opinion, too?”

“More than you know.” Peter’s throat was dry and his comment came out as a whisper.

“Hmm…” 

Neal’s breath was on his neck and Peter could feel the heat from his body radiating off him. 

“We should eat. The roast is getting cold.” Then the heat was gone.

Peter blinked, turning to find Neal sitting at the table, wine glass in hand. 

Peter took a seat. Mentally, he shook himself. This was his house and his meal. He was going to stay in control if it killed him.

“May I?” He gestured to the roast.

“Absolutely.” Neal passed his plate and Peter placed some meat and vegetables on it.

Peter served himself. “Let me know what you think.”

“Peter, this is delicious.” Neal’s eyes were closed in delight. “I don’t think I’ve ever tasted roast this good.”

“Thank you.” Peter smiled, strangely glad that Neal liked the dinner.

They talked about baseball – Neal impressing Peter with his knowledge of the Yankees and their history - the new Chagall exhibit at the Channing that they both wanted to see, and various other nonspecific items of interest to the two of them.

Peter made sure that he wouldn’t say anything that would give Neal an opportunity to slide into innuendo, but throughout the meal he caught Neal smiling at him like he knew what Peter was doing.

“Let me clean up and then we can head to the living room.” Peter collected the dishes and took them to the counter.

“I can help.” Neal picked up the salad and the tiramisu. “Where’s your plastic wrap?”

“Drawer by the fridge.” Peter stacked the dishes in the dishwasher, trying to shake the feeling he’d had earlier about how good, how _right_ this felt. He’d known Neal for less than a week – he shouldn’t be this comfortable with him, especially considering Neal’s game of cat and mouse.

“Okay, anything else I can do?” Neal had put the salad and the tiramisu away.

“Nope, just go make yourself comfortable in the living room.” Peter wrapped up the roast. “I’ll be in there shortly.”

He watched Neal walk into the other room, their wineglasses in hand, and couldn’t help but appreciate the view. Dinner was one thing, but the rest of the evening was going to be interesting because he had no idea how things were going to unfold.

Neal, in his house, sitting on his couch, waiting for him. A quote from Oscar Wilde flashed through Peter’s mind. _“The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.”_

And Neal was oh, so tempting.

Peter finished cleaning up and dried his hands. A deep breath later, he headed into the living room.

Neal was pressing buttons on the audio system. Moments later, the sounds of _The House Is A Rockin’_ by Stevie Ray Vaughn filled the room. 

Neal pushed the coffee table out of the way then held his hand out to Peter. “Dance with me.”

“What?” Dance? Was Neal crazy? 

“You heard me. C’mon, Peter. Dance with me.” 

“I – I don’t dance.” Peter shook his head and took a step back. 

“Sure you do. Just follow me.” Neal took Peter’s hands, placing one on Neal’s shoulder and holding the other. Peter felt Neal’s hand caress his waist as he pulled Peter closer. “It’s simple.” He guided Peter to the middle of the space. 

“Like this.” Neal rocked them side to side. “Relax and watch my feet.” 

Peter watched as Neal stepped sideways, then back, then rocked away from Peter as he tapped his foot behind his heel. 

“You try.”

“No, I can’t.” Peter shook his head.

“Please, for me?” Looking into Neal’s eyes, Peter couldn’t say no.

“Okay.” Peter mimicked Neal’s steps and found that it was easier than he thought. Laughing out loud, he felt Neal speed up the tempo to match the music.

Chests pressed together then apart, Neal spun him out until their arms were stretched, then pulled him in, wrapping his arms around Peter. Shimmying behind him, Peter felt Neal’s cock rub against his ass as he moved Peter forward, then spun him out again.

Another spin and Peter twirled under his arm, Neal completely in control as he moved them around the room, his hands touching Peter’s hips, his shoulders, his waist, guiding Peter where he wanted to him to go.

It was exhilarating. Peter felt like he was flying. 

Neal pulled him tight against his chest and slid his hand down to Peter’s ass, locking them tight. He shimmied, rubbing against Peter’s thigh, gazing into his eyes with a smirk, then spinning him out again.

Peter was dizzy – from the dancing or Neal being so close, he couldn’t tell. 

The song ended and they fell on the couch laughing. 

“That was fun.” Peter grinned and looked over at Neal. 

Neal's regarded him with a tilt of his head. “You don't do fun very often do you?” 

“I do.” He protested. "I go to ball games, movies. El and I have lots of fun." 

“But nothing spur of the moment - impulsive?” 

Peter considered Neal’s words and realized that he really didn't do anything impulsive. “No,” he confessed sheepishly. “I guess not.”

“Why?” Neal was watching him. 

Peter thought about it. “I think because of the way I grew up. My dad was in construction. We were comfortable but we never really had extra, you know? Everything had to be planned out.” 

He leaned forward to take a drink of his wine.

“Then I had to supplement my school loans and financial aid with a job so I could stay at NYU. If I wanted to go out I had to plan for it to make sure I had enough money.”

“I'm sorry.” Neal's voice was soft. 

“Don't be. It's what I had to do to get where I wanted to be.” 

Peter felt Neal shift closer, his body instinctively turning towards the other man. 

“It's just that everyone should do impulsive at least once in their lives.” Neal's breath washed over Peter's neck and he shivered. “If you could do one impulsive thing, Peter Burke, what would it be?”

Peter froze. _Kneel and suck your cock…_ his hindbrain screamed. He touched Neal’s thigh before pulling his hand back like it was scalded. He needed step away, get some space. 

“I...I think I need to wrap up the evening...” His voice trailed off. 

Neal sat back, a small smile on his face. “I understand. It _is_ getting late.” He rose gracefully from the couch and extended his hand to help Peter. Dazedly, Peter walked him to the door. 

His hand on the doorknob, Neal gazed at Peter. Peter was trapped in the deep blue of Neal's eyes and he never wanted to leave. He had no idea how long he stood there until the touch of Neal’s hand on his face jolted him back to awareness. 

"Peter, you never have to hesitate about being with me.” Neal’s voice was low. “I may push the envelope with you, but you will always be the one who's in control.”

A hard kiss and Neal was gone, leaving Peter staring at the door, questioning Neal’s definition of the word.

Mozzie should have known better than to agree to one of Neal's little _missions_. They always ended up with him naked somewhere. At least this time, he was in a pretty woman's bedroom.

Getting in wasn't all that hard. His target had foolishly left her bedroom window open, and he was a cat, after all. He climbed the ancient tree in the tiny back yard, scampered down the branch and jumped onto the fire escape.

Looking at Elizabeth Mitchell in an oversized tee shirt hiked up just enough to give him a glimpse of her perfect ass made this little jaunt worthwhile. That and the wild Atlantic salmon waiting for him when he got back to Neal’s place.

Mentally cataloguing Elizabeth’s image for use later, he picked his way across the carpet at a very delicate pace, curled around the doorjamb and transformed into his human form. He silently thanked Elizabeth for turning the heat up. He hated being naked under any circumstances, but it was worse when he was cold and certain sensitive bits of his anatomy got all tight and wrinkly.

His first stop was the bathroom to see if she had any latex gloves. Not only were they good for covering his prints, but he didn’t want to pick up any germs while rifling through her office. One never knew where people put their hands these days. Finding a box, his luck held out that they were size small. Pulling on a pair, he took a towel from the laundry basket before he crept through the darkened space until he found her home office.

Laying the towel on the leather office chair, he settled himself and got to work.

An hour later Mozzie had hacked into her computer and set up a back door so he could download her files when he returned home. Sneaking a glance at her online calendar, he saw the typical items – book signings for Peter, meetings with his publisher and editor, as well as appointments for nails, hair and massages for her.

Mozzie flipped though her mail and found the usual bills and advertisements. A search of her desk drawers revealed nothing out of the ordinary. Elizabeth was a member of the local health club, AAA, and wine of the month club. He sighed – she was almost shamefully plebian.

Her bookcase didn’t reveal any deep secrets either. Several writer’s reference manuals, foreign language dictionaries, and research notebooks from Peter’s past novels took up most of the room on the shelves. 

Photos of the two of them at various award banquets and casual events filled up some of the empty spaces. 

Mozzie examined the photos, looking to see if there was any glimmer of an relationship. Their poses, hands at the waist, heads tilted away from each other, had him satisfied that they were just friends. Which would make things easier for Neal. 

Mozzie shook his head. He wasn’t comfortable with Neal’s choice this time. Peter Burke was not just some random person – he was a well-known figure and his disappearance would raise questions. However, there was nothing he could do to stop the inevitable. Neal had decided that he was going to have Peter no matter what. 

Mozzie was about to wrap up his snooping when he noticed a black tote bag tucked away in a corner. Unzipping it, he found a large, black moleskine notebook inside.

Taking it out, Mozzie brought it over to the monitor so he could see it more clearly. Reading the notes, he started to sweat.

“No, no, no...” Muttering to himself, he flipped through the pages, faster and faster. “Oh sweet Edgar Allan Poe…this is not good!”

His eye caught a notation at the bottom of one of the pages and his stomach clenched. “Meeting at 3 p.m. with -.”

He stilled at a sound from another room. Elizabeth was up. Putting the notebook back in the bag, he quickly turned off the monitor and stripped off the gloves. Morphing back into a cat, he hid himself in a patch of darkness.

A shadow crossed the doorframe as Elizabeth walked into the kitchen. Mozzie heard the refrigerator door open and watched the light spill out, silhouetting Elizabeth’s outline as she removed a bottle of water.

He stifled a hiss as she headed back into her bedroom. He was stuck until she fell back to sleep. He needed to get to Neal and tell him what he’d found. 

But maybe not everything. The person that Elizabeth had an appointment with was not someone Mozzie wanted to cross. How she knew them and why they were meeting was something he needed to discreetly find out before he shared that information with Neal. He settled in to wait, running probabilities in his head.

Forty-five minutes later, he took the chance that it was safe to leave. Shifting back to his human form, he grabbed the towel and the gloves and quietly left the office. Burying the gloves in the wastebasket and putting the towel in the laundry basket, he slipped back into his feline persona and stealthily snuck out the window.

Moz didn’t see, but moments later, Elizabeth rolled over and opened her eyes. Rising, she walked over to the window and closed it, surveying the slight swaying of the tree. Touching the glass, a small smile crossed her face as she returned to bed.

“Neal!” Mozzie transformed as he ran up the outer stairs so the sound started off as a ‘meow’ and ended with ‘-eal’.

“Neal, where are you?” Mozzie looked frantically around until he spotted Neal slouched in a chair on the shadowed balcony, legs spread, nursing a glass of whiskey. His friend was staring into space, a dark look on his face. He was still dressed in the outfit he’d worn to Peter’s, the buttons at his throat undone, sleeves rolled up.

“Neal, we’ve got trouble. Elizabeth - .” He stopped short as Neal held up a hand.

“Moz, you know I can’t talk to you when you’re naked.” Neal closed his eyes. “There are some things you just can’t unsee.”

“Oh, sorry.” Mozzie grabbed a pillow and covered himself. Locating his clothes, he dressed quickly. “We have a big problem.”

“What did you find?” Neal sipped his liquor, his only movement. 

“They know about you.” Sitting down on the chaise next to him, Mozzie related the details of his break in. “She had a notebook, Neal, full of your story.” He knew he was vibrating, but he couldn’t help it. “It had practically everything – the painting, your deal with the Devil, the fact that you have to drink blood. Neal, how could this happen!”

“Calm down, Moz.” Neal leaned in, his face betraying no emotion. “How much was there?”

“I told you - everything! That you had some kind of blood disease, that you don’t age….” Mozzie started to hyperventilate. “God, Neal. How did Peter figure it out? You didn’t tell him anything, did you?”

“Relax.” Neal’s voice was cold. Mozzie hadn’t heard that tone since 1910 when he balked at helping Neal woo perfume heiress Dorothy Arnold. “And no, I haven’t said a word about my history.”

“Then how did he know?”

“He’s a writer, Moz. It’s called imagination.” Neal drained his glass. “Now breathe.” 

Inhaling deeply, he did as Neal asked. “Okay, I’m calm. But what are we going to do? No one’s supposed to know about this, Neal. That was the agreement, remember?”

“I remember, Moz. Every day.” 

The wheels in Neal’s brain were turning – Mozzie could see him considering and discarding ideas. Neal finally looked at him – a look that reminded Mozzie of just who owned Neal's soul. He shivered. 

“Call June in the morning and have her hand deliver the club invitation to Ms. Mitchell. Do you know where she’s going to be tomorrow?” Neal’s eyes drilled into his.

“Yeah. She’s got a salon appointment at Garren New York at ten.” 

“Perfect.” Neal picked up the whiskey bottle and walked over to the balcony rail. Mozzie watched as he poured two fingers into the glass. The silence stretched - Neal drinking and Mozzie waiting. 

He couldn’t stand it anymore. “What’s the plan, Neal?” 

Neal turned to him. “I don’t know, Moz. But we need to keep Peter’s book from being published at any cost.”

Mozzie was scared. He loved Neal like a brother and would do anything for him, but when Neal got this way, nothing Mozzie could do would change his decision. Nevertheless, he had to try.

“Neal…” he began.

“Mozzie, don’t.” Half in shadow, Neal’s expression was a mix of resignation and excitement and it chilled Mozzie to the bone. “You know it has to be this way.”

“But, Neal, I -.”

“No.” The finality in Neal’s voice stopped any of Mozzie’s further protests. “I’m going downstairs. You should leave by the outside entrance.”

The sound of the closing door echoed strangely in the small apartment as Mozzie realized he hadn’t told Neal about Elizabeth’s meeting.

Suddenly the thought of Wild Atlantic Salmon didn’t seem so appealing.

Neal prowled the club looking for distraction. He needed to get Peter Burke out of his head, at least for one evening. A clear mind would help him with whatever plan he needed to devise to neutralize him – or at least, the book he was planning on writing.

He knew that the information Peter had – whether it was gained by imagination or otherwise – was not to his benefit and could be disastrous for his long-term well-being. 

Neal chuckled as he remembered the famous notion that an infinite number of monkeys with an infinite number of typewriters and an infinite amount of time could eventually write the works of Shakespeare. 

Peter was not a monkey, but he could have easily strung random ideas together to come up with an interesting plot – one that too well mirrored his own life.

If Peter published it, however, there was no telling what the effect would be. Neal knew at the very least, he would be in jeopardy. There was nothing he could say or do to convince those who needed convincing that he hadn’t shared his life story with the author.

And because of that, Peter Burke needed to be dealt with.

Which was a shame, really. Neal had enjoyed slowly unraveling him, watching him step closer and closer to the void. He’d been looking forward to experiencing Peter, tasting him, fucking him, making him his, on his own timetable.

Now things needed to be taken care of sooner than later. Which meant Neal had to come up with a plan – and _that_ needed clear thinking.

Neal knew he needed one of the many distractions at the club offered to clear his head.” Everything seemed to be just this side of vanilla. He sensed the typical spankings, threesomes, foursomes, bondage. Nothing to whet his appetite and help him forget.

Unsatisfied, he headed back up to the third floor and walked to the end of the hall. One of the panels opened at the swipe of his keycard and he slipped in to a darkened room.

Deep mahogany panels graced the walls, with matching furniture offsetting the silver and blue silk bedding.

“I’m surprised to see you here.” A voice came from the shadows. “I assumed you’d spend the night at your plaything’s house.”

Neal turned on a table lamp, casting a low light on the figure seated in the chair in the corner. 

“Not tonight.” He removed his vest and began unbuttoning his shirt. “I’ve still been enjoying the chase.”

“And now?” Clinton Jones cradled his whiskey glass between his fingers before taking a drink. 

“And now things are different.” He turned to Jones, admiring the red silk robe that clung to his form.

“How so?” Placing the glass next to the bottle of whiskey, Jones stood and glided over to Neal. Moving his hands away, Jones played valet and slid the buttons out of the shirt holes, one by one. 

Neal let him, liking the feel of Jones’ submission. 

“It seems that somehow Peter Burke has managed to come up with my life story as a plot for his next book.” Neal met his eyes – it was clear that Jones already knew this.

Jones’ hands paused, then resumed their work. “And what do you plan to do about that?”

“I don’t know.” Neal broke away and began pacing. “I thought I had more time.”

“You don’t.” Jones’ voice was flat.

“Don’t you think I know that?” Frustrated, Neal ran a hand through his hair. “I need to come up with something.” 

“Neal….” Jones began, but Neal continued talking. 

“It can’t look like I broke the agreement, Clinton. I’ll be dead if that happens.”

“Neal.” Jones raised his voice to get Neal’s attention, but Neal ignored him, lost in his thoughts. 

“I need a plan…” Neal trailed off, thinking.

“Neal!” Suddenly Neal was shoved against the wall, Jones trapping him against the paneling. “Relax.”

Struggling, Neal tried to free himself, but Jones had him pinned like a butterfly. “Stop fighting.” The cold from Jones’ body began seeping in, stilling him. 

“I need...,” he began.

“I know what you need, Neal.” Jones’ voice was hypnotic. “Let me give it to you.” Neal breathed, feeling Jones’ erection pressing against the curve of his ass. Closing his eyes, he felt the fabric of his shirt tear as Jones began stripping him. 

Naked, Neal moaned as Jones’ hands touched him everywhere bringing pleasure and pain in equal measure. Nipples pinched until they were blood red, his cock slicked up from the spit in Jones’ palm, fingers rubbing circles at the edge of his hole.

“Get on the bed.” The tone in Jones’ voice did not make that a request. “On your back.”

He let Neal go with a push towards the mattress. Falling on the bed, Neal crawled towards the headboard and turned around. He posed himself and reached for his cock, only to have Jones smack his hand away.

“Did I give you permission to touch yourself?”

Neal was silent. 

“Did I?” 

“No.” Neal’s voice was a whisper.

“I can’t hear you.” Neal knew Jones heard him perfectly.

“NO.” Louder this time. 

“Right.” Jones gaze was dark and hungry. Neal’s cock jumped in answer to his look. “I think you need to learn not to touch.”

“Are you going to tie me up, Clinton?” Neal’s mouth watered at the idea of the leather shackles attached to the sides of the bed. 

“No. You’re going to grab the headboard and not let go no matter what I do. Think you can do that?” Jones let out a dirty laugh. “Frankly, I’m not sure you’ve got that much self-control.”

“Try me.” Neal grabbed the wooden carvings. The coldness in his voice had Jones laughing again.

“We’ll see.” The air in the room shifted as Jones untied his robe and let it slip from his shoulders. “Now, where should I start?”

He was on Neal in an instant, caging him within his arms and legs. Neal moaned as Jones licked a stripe up his neck and he tightened his hands on the headboard. 

Jones’ body held him pinned to the bed, their cocks rubbing together. Neal arched his back, trying to get more friction.

“My show, Caffrey.” Jones held himself away, laughing roughly at Neal’s whine. “You don’t call the shots here. And if you let go, I’m going to leave you hanging.”

“Fuck you, Jones,” Neal growled, hooking his legs around Jones’ hips, trying to pull him back in.

“Fucking’s part of the plan, don’t worry.” With a shift of his body, Jones showed his strength and broke the hold Neal had on him.

Slithering down, he latched onto Neal’s nipple, sucking and tonguing it hard. Neal hissed in pleasure as Jones bit down. He threw his head back, reveling in the mix of pain and desire thrumming through his body.

This is what he needed. 

“Yeah. Right there.” Neal wanted to touch Jones but he knew the other man would keep his promise to leave Neal frustrated. 

Jones chuckled knowingly against his skin. “I know you want to let go. Don’t.”

Neal’s hips jerked as Jones wrapped a hand around his cock. “Oh god, yes!” He lost himself in the feel of Jones jacking him slowly, his fingers sliding behind his balls, pressing down as he caressed between Neal’s ass cheeks. It felt glorious but Neal wanted more.

“Need you to suck me.” It was a demand. 

“Topping from the bottom again, huh Caffrey?” Jones fondled Neal’s balls, pinching them slightly. 

“Jones.” Neal’s eyes glittered.

“Okay.” Jones chuckled. “Anything to indulge the boss.” Leaning down, he swirled his tongue around the head of Neal’s dick before swallowing him.

“Fuck!” Neal arched off the bed as his brain short-circuited. The world narrowed to the motions of Jones’ mouth on his cock. Wet, hot suction, up and down his shaft. The pressure of Jones’ tongue. His teeth grazing Neal’s slit. 

“God, yes! Suck me harder.” Neal tried to thrust his hips up, but he was pinned to the bed, helpless, while Jones’ mouth ravished his cock. 

Whining, Neal struggled as Jones slid two fingers into his mouth next to Neal’s dick. The pressure of those fingers next to his cock sent an added jolt of arousal throughout Neal’s body, because Neal knew where they were going to end up.

Jones didn’t disappoint. 

Pulling his fingers out of his mouth, Jones skated them around Neal’s hole before shoving first one then the other inside him. Stretching him roughly, the burn intense.

“Fuck….” Neal keened as Jones found his prostate, sending sparks up and down his spine. “Now…need you to fuck me.”

Jones pulled his mouth off Neal’s erection. “Ask nicely, Neal.”

“God…please fuck me.” Neal knew he was begging but he didn’t care. He needed Jones’ cock in his ass, needed to feel him pounding him into the mattress.

“Much better.” The next thing Neal knew, Jones was between his thighs, Neal’s legs over his shoulders. Lining himself up, Jones pushed in until he was bottomed out in Neal’s ass.

It hurt.

Neal loved it.

“Move…oh fuck…move.” Writhing on the bed, Neal pleaded with Jones. “Please…need it.”

Jones snapped his hips and Neal screamed. Harder and harder, Jones ground into him, fucking him deep, his balls slapping against Neal’s ass. Taunting him to let go of the headboard. Threatening to pull out and leave him if Neal did.

“C’mon, Caffrey,” Jones panted. “Come for me.” 

Through slitted eyes, Neal saw Jones lick his hand and slick it over Neal’s cock. The pressure of that hand around him and the dick inside him sent Neal over the edge.

He erupted in white-hot streams, spurting over his chest, Jones’ hand, their stomachs. Jones fucked him through it, filling Neal with his come before pulling out and dropping to Neal’s side.

Breathing heavily, they lay silent for a moment before Jones got up and headed to the bathroom for towels.

Neal stretched his hands, looking at grooves in them where he’d held on so tightly to the headboard. He winced as his muscles twinged. His ass was sore from Jones’ assault but his mind was clear. _Just what he needed_

Returning, Jones handed him a warm damp washcloth then went to retrieve the whiskey while Neal cleaned himself up.

Pouring a glass, he offered Neal a drink. The whiskey had a smooth burn as it went down Neal’s throat. Handing the glass back to Jones, Neal pulled him back down to the bed. 

“Thank you.” Neal didn’t have to specify for what. He knew Jones was well aware.

“You know what you’re going to do now?” Jones settled himself against the head of the bed.

“Yeah, I do.” Neal drew circles on the bedspread.

“Care to share?” Jones sipped his whiskey.

Neal’s mouth curved into a cold smile. “I think it’s time for Peter Burke to experience l’appel Du Vide.”

Peter was awakened by the ringing of his phone. Scrabbling for it, he hit the accept button without looking at the caller ID.

“ ‘lo.” 

_“Good morning, Peter.”_

“Neal.” Peter sat up and rubbed his face, trying to wake up.

_Sorry it’s so early.”_ Neal’s voice was cheerful and Peter cursed him silently for being a morning person. _“I just wanted to make sure I talked to you before you made plans for this evening.”_

“Um, okay.” He headed to his dresser to pull out some jeans. “Why?”

_“Because I want you to come to the club tonight.”_

The club. Peter wasn’t sure that was a good idea. He had a hard enough time fighting his reaction to Neal in an average setting. Going to the club and being surrounded by people having sex…. “Neal, I don’t think that’s my sort of thing.”

_“People come to the club for many reasons, Peter,”_ Neal chuckled. _“Tonight we just happen to have a fantastic trio playing that I thought you might like. That’s all.”_

“Oh.” Peter blushed even though he knew Neal couldn’t see him. 

_“It’s an invitation to hear some good music, Peter.”_ Neal was laughing. _“I’m not going to debauch you.”_ He paused. _“Unless you want me to…”_

Peter inhaled sharply as he imagined himself spread out on his bed, Neal above him, their cocks rubbing together.

“Um…”

_“I’m teasing you, Peter. But I really would like for you to come to the club tonight.”_ Neal’s tone was expectant.

Peter meant to say no. The word was on the tip of his tongue. What came out was “Okay. I’d like that.” 

_“Wonderful. The band starts at nine. Parking’s not the best so I’ll send a car for you.”_

“Are you sure? I can drive myself.” Peter wasn’t sure he wanted to go without the availability of an escape vehicle.

_“Trust me. You’ll be better off being picked up.”_

“Okay then.” Peter walked over to his closet to see what would be appropriate for that evening.

_“Excellent. And Peter? Wear the leather pants.”_ With a chuckle, Neal was off the line.

Peter stared at the phone. _How did Neal know he had leather pants?”_ He dug deeper into his closet and pulled out the garment in question.

Peter put them on the bed and took a considering look. The pants were made of soft black leather and were tailored specifically to his long legs. The last time he’d had them on was for the author photo for his last book. _Maybe that’s where Neal saw them._

He normally didn’t wear them but when he did he usually went commando. _Might not be a good idea this time,_ he thought. He didn’t want to make it any easier for Neal to play his games. 

It wasn’t difficult for Peter to imagine Neal’s slender fingers unzipping him, pulling him out, dropping to his knees -. He shook his head - the voice in his mind was taunting him again. But it was hard not to go there – especially considering where he would be this evening. 

He needed focus on work and stop fantasizing about the evening and Neal. Taking one last look at the pants, he headed to the bathroom to get ready for the day.

Peter made sure to compliment Elizabeth on the results of her salon visit when she arrived at the office that afternoon. Once, early in their acquaintance, he’d made the mistake of ignoring it and Elizabeth’s response was something he never wanted to see again.

“So, tell me about last night?” Elizabeth took off her coat and hung it up on the tree.

“It was nothing special.” Peter shrugged. “We had dinner, we danced, he went home.”

“Danced?” Elizabeth’s eyes glinted with humor. “You, the man who swears he has three left feet, danced?”

“Yeah.” Peter rubbed the back of his neck and grinned. “We jitterbugged. It was fun.”

“See, I _knew_ Neal was good for you.” She clapped her hands. “Are you going out again soon?”

“Actually, I’m meeting Neal at his club tonight.” 

“Wait, what? Peter, are you sure that’s a good idea?” The shock in Elizabeth’s voice was unmistakable. 

“I’m just going to hear the band they have tonight, El,” he reassured her. “That’s all.”

“Peter…” she began.

“El…” He imitated her tone. 

“I just worry about you.” She pursed her lips at him.

“I know.” He walked over to her side of the desk and kissed her forehead. “I’m a big boy, El. I know how to say no.”

“Okay.” She was quiet for a moment. “So obviously you’re going. What are you wearing?”

“Not sure. Are leather pants too cliché for a BDSM club?” he asked with a wicked tone as he headed towards the kitchen for more coffee. 

“Only if you don’t wear a shirt.” Elizabeth followed him. 

“Cute.” Peter laughed. “Seriously though, I thought my leather pants and a black shirt would work.” 

“That’s perfect. You should watch out for chafing though.” She leaned against the counter as he fired up the Keurig.

“Chafing?” Puzzled, he looked at her. 

“Yeah. Going commando in leather can be painful.” Elizabeth took down a glass and filled it with ice water.

“Who says I’ll be going commando?” Peter said in mock outrage. She quirked an eyebrow at him. “Okay, yeah. But these are the silk lined ones. Shouldn’t be a problem.” He fixed his coffee and turned to go back to the office.

“Just remember though, protein stains are tough to get out of leather,” Elizabeth commented slyly.

“Protein?” Peter asked before his mind caught up to what she was implying. “Oh, Ms. Mitchell, you are all sorts of wrong.”

“That’s why you love me.” She gave him a cheeky grin.

“It’s one of the many reasons, yes.” He sat down at his desk and opened up his file. “But now I would love you if you could find me information on clothing styles from 1890.”

“On it.” Elizabeth began typing at her keyboard.

Peter looked at his document but didn’t really see it. Neal’s invitation was too much at the forefront of his thoughts. He felt like the fly in that poem by Mary Howitt. Neal had all but asked _‘Will you walk into my parlor?’_ And Peter had said yes.

He hoped tonight wouldn’t have the same ending.

The ride was smooth as the limo cruised through the darkened streets. Peter was impressed by the vehicle. Soft leather seats, a fully stocked bar - Neal had pulled out all the stops for the short ride from his house to the club.

Pouring a glass of bourbon, he considered the evening. The writer in him was intrigued with the opportunity to observe and possibly use the club in his book. His gut, however, was telling him to be cautious, and his instincts were shouting that this was not just a regular date. He couldn’t put his finger on why he felt that way – he just knew that something was not as it should be.

He was reminded of the gazelles on the Serengeti – placidly grazing but always aware of the lions lurking nearby. Never sure when those predators would stop sunning themselves and pounce on their prey. He was Neal’s prey – Peter was sure of it. He just didn’t know what the end game was supposed to be, and that worried him.

The limo pulled up to the club before he could finish that thought. The driver came around and opened the door for him.

“Welcome to l’appel Du Vide, Mr. Burke. Mr. Caffrey wanted you to know that he’ll be waiting for you in the lounge.”

“Thank you.” Peter nodded at the driver. Stepping away from the limo, he took a look at the building. He knew the history – it was built by a Turkish tobacco baron at the turn of the century, became a finishing school for young women in the thirties, owned at one time by a professor from Columbia University. He’d even considered using the location in an earlier book, but that hadn’t panned out.

The windows glowed like amber and he could see shadows of the patrons moving about in the lower rooms. It all looked normal – there was no indication of the activities that he was sure were taking place behind closed doors. The front door opened and a couple exited, brushing past him as they talked quietly to each other.

The door closed but not before Peter heard the sound of a piano and caught a glimpse of the opulent marble entranceway. It beckoned to him, and he wasn’t sure he was comfortable with that. 

Shivering, Peter moved forward, only to practically trip over a black cat that ran across his path. It hissed at him, then scurried off. Peter regained his balance then continued on; he refused to consider that a sign of bad luck.

He saw Neal leaning against the door, watching him with hooded eyes. Dressed in a grey shirt, the sleeves rolled up, legs encased in deep blue denim that stopped at black leather boots, Neal pushed himself off the door jamb and stepped out onto the stoop. His hair was casually arranged, a slight breeze making a lock fall down to curl on his forehead. It made him look younger, innocent. Peter knew that was far from the case. 

There was something unsettling about Neal’s attire. Peter had only known him in Armani suits, and seeing him dressed this way – so unstudied – made Neal seem approachable. Less dangerous. More like someone Peter could spend forever with. 

Shoving that thought into the back of his mind, Peter spoke first. “I thought you were in the lounge?” 

“Couldn’t wait to see you.” Neal’s gaze swept over him, and Peter heard him make a small sound of pleasure when he saw the leather pants. “You look fantastic.”

Blushing, Peter responded, “I could say the same thing about you.”

Neal smiled. “Thank you. Ready to enter the den of iniquity?” He chuckled.

“Why not.” Peter let Neal get the door and entered at his gesture. He looked around, marveling at the marble interior.

“What are you looking for?” Neal walked next to him.

“Oh, just a plaque on the wall. You know, _‘Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate’._ ” Peter glanced at Neal to see if he caught the reference. 

“‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here’.” Neal laughed. “Sorry to say, Peter, this is not the Gates of Hell and Dante is nowhere to be found. Although the upper floors _can_ put one in mind of the Second Ring.”

“So then I’m safe here.”

“I didn’t say that.” Neal’s reply sent chills and a frisson of lust skittering down Peter’s spine. Of course he wasn’t safe. He was with Neal. 

Before he could reply they entered the main floor of the club. Peter had to admit it was gorgeous. _Just like Neal,_ his mind supplied. 

Warm wooden paneling highlighted the blue and silver décor. Comfortable furniture in cozy groupings. Art on the walls that Peter knew had to be originals. He identified a Chagall and at least one Monet. 

But what caught his eye was the staircase. The solid oak banister, the wide steps, rising up to the shadowy landing before turning to disappear into the darkness. Something about it spoke to the impious place inside of him, murmuring encouragement so subtly that he didn’t realize he’d taken a few steps towards it until Neal spoke. 

“Let’s get a drink before the band starts.” Neal led him over to the bar nestled in the corner. “I’ll have a Bloody Mary,” he told the bartender. “Turning to Peter he said, “We have an excellent microbrew if you’re interested.”

“Sounds good.” Peter looked around while he waited for the bartender to fix Neal’s drink. He was surprised to see the number of people that were there - some laughing, others in intense conversation. Wait staff discreetly served hors d'oeuvres and whisked away empty plates and glasses.

The clientele was eclectic. Peter recognized a Senator, two CEOs, several actors and a pop singer.

“Interesting mix of people,” he commented as Neal handed him his beer. “Aren’t you concerned that they’ll tell the media what happens here?”

Neal smiled. “There’s nothing illegal about this. Peter.” He took a sip of his drink. “They’d have to admit they were here, too. Plus, for some, this is the one place that they can be themselves without fear.”

“You have a point.” Peter wondered whether he fell into that category or whether he should be afraid of what might transpire as the night progressed.

“Let’s go get our seats. The band’s ready to start.” 

Peter followed Neal into the small lounge and they sat at a small table in the back. A server placed a small platter of hors d'oeuvres on their table and poured them sparkling water.

“I promised our chef that I’d try some of his new recipes.” Neal motioned to the food. “I hope you don’t mind being a guinea pig.”

Peter considered the display. The food looked wonderful and smelled even better. “Not at all. You just need to tell me what everything is.”

“I can do that.” Neal smiled, picked up a piece, and held it out to Peter. “This is a Smoked Salmon Crostini.” Peter moved to take it but Neal held it just out of reach. “No – taste it.” He touched it to Peter’s lips.

Instinctively Peter opened his mouth and let Neal slide the creation in. The flavors burst against his tongue as Peter felt the brush of Neal’s fingers against his mouth. 

“Good?” Neal smiled at Peter’s nod. 

Taking a drink of water, Peter cleared his palate. “Really good. Put that on the menu.”

“Consider it done.” Neal took another piece and this time Peter didn’t hesitate to take a bite. Beef this time. 

The band began, playing a counterpoint to their dance at the table. Neal kept coaxing him to try different items, teasing him about expanding his horizons. Peter’s glass never seemed to be empty, the sparkling water being replaced by wine, then cognac.

The music was wonderful, the food was delicious but throughout the evening Peter’s mind kept wandering back to the staircase – where it led, what was happening upstairs.

He tried to squelch the thoughts, but they kept sneaking in. He imagined bodies writhing, sliding against each other. Moans of desire slipping past lips tasting skin.

He imagined Neal naked, up against a wall, his hands on Peter’s face while he sucked Neal’s cock.

“Peter?” Neal’s voice intruded into his fantasy. “Are you okay? You look flushed.”

“I’m fine. Just thinking.” Peter didn’t want to tell Neal what he was thinking.

Neal smiled as if he knew. “A writer’s job is never done, right?” 

“Something like that.” Peter turned his thoughts to the music and was surprised when band wrapped up the number and began to tear down. Looking around, he realized they were the only ones left in the lounge. He checked his watch – 2 a.m. “Wow, I didn’t realize it was so late.”

“You were relaxed,” Neal replied as he sipped his drink. “It looks good on you.”

“Thanks.” Peter watched the drummer dismantle his kit. “So…what now?”

“Now?” Neal put down his drink and stood. “Now I was going to ask you if you’d like to come upstairs with me.” 

“Upstairs?” Peter’s mouth dried up. Walking up the staircase with Neal. Entering one of those rooms….

“My apartment’s on the top floor and I don’t want the evening to end quite yet.” He held out his hand to Peter. 

“Oh.” Peter was relieved and disappointed. Taking Neal’s hand, he let himself be pulled out of the chair.

“Did you think I meant one of the playrooms, Peter?” Neal stepped behind him. “Because if that’s what you want…” His voice caressed Peter’s ear and he felt the pressure of Neal’s fingers trailing their way across the front of his pants. Teasing his cock half hard before he took Peter’s hand again.

“Yes…No…I don’t know.” The words slipped out before Peter could stop them. 

Neal didn’t reply. He started walking backwards, Peter’s hand in his. Out of the lounge, to the base of the staircase where he stopped, one foot on the first stair.

“It’s your choice, Peter.” Neal locked their gazes. “It’s always been your choice.” 

_His choice._

Peter stared at Neal - taking in his beauty, his intelligence, his darkness. Peter wanted it. _God_ , how he wanted it. Wanted him. Wanted to fuck Neal, be fucked by Neal. Peter wanted to surrender completely and see where it took him.

He nodded.

Still holding Peter’s hand, Neal turned and led him, step by step, up the stairs into the darkening shadows.

The atmosphere was cooler on the upper floor. Blues and silvers graced the walls and thick carpeting muffled their footfalls as they passed by the closed doors. 

They climbed higher, the second set of stairs to the third floor. It was darker again – blue-shaded table lamps casting shadows on the walls, on their faces. Neal glanced back at him, silent. Peter wanted to speak but he was afraid that the sound of his voice would break whatever spell was being woven.

Peter was exhilarated and terrified all at once. He had no idea what was going to happen and for the first time in a long time, that was what he wanted. To react. No planning, no scheduling – just acting on impulse. 

Neal paused before a deep blue lacquered door. “I want to show you something, Peter, if you’ll let me.” His voice was low, in keeping with the hush that was enveloping them. 

Peter’s brow furrowed. Show him something?

“You can say no. Remember, you’re the one in control.” Neal’s hand was on the doorknob, his eyes on Peter. “I just want you to understand.” 

“Okay.” Again, Peter’s words skipped ahead of his brain.

Neal opened the door. The room was dark, one low lamp in the corner casting just enough light to make out the furniture. Couches and chairs were facing a curtained wall. There was nothing else.

“I don’t…what do you want me to see, Neal?” Peter was confused. 

“This.” Neal must have pressed a button because the curtain slowly parted to reveal a window into the next room.

Peter caught his breath. On the bed were a man and a woman. They were in shadow but it was obvious what was happening. The woman was cuffed to the headboard, her hair obscuring her face. The man had his head between her thighs, his dark hands marking her pale skin. 

Peter couldn’t tear his eyes away as they undulated on the bed. He was not into women, but her wantonness was affecting him. “Neal…” His voice was hoarse and his cock was growing hard. “Why…?”

“Because this is a part of you, Peter.” Neal was behind him, hands caressing Peter’s arms. “I knew from the first time we met that you had this in you.”

Neal’s hands moved to Peter’s shirt, unbuttoning it slowly. “Look at them. They are beautiful, aren’t they?” 

Peter nodded. He watched the couple through the glass as Neal slowly stripped him of his shirt. They were gorgeous. The man caressing the woman’s nipples as he rubbed his dick against her thigh, her back arching to meet his fingers. 

Neal mimicked them, caressing and pinching Peter’s nipples until they were hard and aching. “Can you tell that she likes it, Peter?”

Peter gasped out a ‘yes.’ Neal pulled him back so they were molded together. 

“What about you, Peter? Do you like it when I play with your nipples like that?”

“Yes.” He gasped again.

“Tell me, Peter. Tell me what you like.” Neal rolled a nipple between his fingers and Peter moaned.

“I like it when you play with my nipples.” Peter blushed. He’d never said anything like that out loud before.

“Good. I want to hear you tell me what you like.” Neal skated his hand down towards Peter’s waist. “Especially when I fuck you, Peter. I want to hear every moan and whimper when I open you up to take me. I want to know when I hit that spot inside you. I want to hear you scream when you come for me.”

_Oh God_ Peter almost lost it right then. 

“Look at the window, Peter. They know we’re watching. We don’t want to disappoint them.” Neal unzipped him and reached in to caress his dick. Painstakingly slow, Peter felt Neal’s hand move up and down, rubbing his cockhead, massaging his balls.

The man was kneeling between the woman’s legs, his cock hard and slick. Peter moaned at the sight of him flipping her legs up onto his shoulders before he thrust into her.

“You want that, Peter?” Neal ground his erection in the cleft of Peter’s ass. “Want to feel me deep inside you?”

“Yes, god yes. Please!” Peter was panting, his eyes locked on the couple through the glass. He couldn’t look away. Neal didn’t want him to. “Want you inside me, Neal.” Moments later he was out of his leather pants and Neal was pushing him up against the window. 

“Spread your legs, Peter.” Neal’s voice was in his ear; the words spiraling want and need throughout his body. 

Peter did, feeling Neal’s jeans rub against him, before Neal was all over him. Neal slid his fingers, coated with lube, in and out of Peter. Stretching him, ghosting over his prostate, sending sparks of desire directly to Peter’s cock. Peter babbled his want, begging Neal to fuck him with his fingers, pleading with him to make him come with his cock. Neal’s hand kept pumping him, keeping him hard as he thrust a third finger into Peter’s hole. 

“That’s it, Peter. Open up for me.” Dark and low, Neal whispered the debauched things he wanted to do to Peter. And Peter knew he would let him. He knew he would let Neal do anything to him.

Peter let out a whimper as Neal’s fingers disappeared, leaving him abandoned, empty. 

“Patience.” The sound of Neal’s zipper elicited an almost Pavlovian response as Peter’s cock twitched. 

Peter felt the head of Neal’s erection press against him, probing, until he popped through and slid home. 

“Oh God…so good,” Peter whined. 

Neal filled him. His thickness, the burn – it was better than Peter had imagined. He was split open, taken, owned. He lost himself, reveling in the feeling of Neal inside him, finally fucking him.

Peter loved the rasp of Neal’s jeans and the bite of the zipper against his ass cheeks as Neal pounded deeper and deeper into him. Time stopped. It was just Neal’s cock thrusting in and out of him, rocking them against the glass. Neal’s hand stroking Peter’s dick. Neal’s mouth laying kisses on his neck. Peter’s head dropped and he closed his eyes. 

“Eyes up, Peter. They’re going to come.” Neal snapped his hips and repeatedly bottomed out in Peter’s ass.

With a moan, Peter focused on the window. The woman arched up, her mouth open in a cry that Peter couldn’t hear but could imagine. The man sped up, then stilled as he came. 

Peter wanted to come with them, but Neal had his hand squeezing the base of Peter’s cock. “I’m not done with you yet, Peter.” He slowed his thrusts, teasing Peter by pulling almost all the way out, then inch-by-inch, sliding back in until he was seated all the way. 

The man released the woman from her restraints, brushing her hair from her face as he kissed her. She turned towards towards the glass and Peter could finally see her face. He gasped, chills flowing down his spine. He knew that face. Had seen it every day for over ten years. 

“Elizabeth?” His mind refused to accept that he had just witnessed his assistant and best friend have sex.

He saw Elizabeth stretch and look directly at him as if the glass were not there. Peter couldn’t believe what he saw – her eyes, glowing blue. She smiled knowingly, touched herself and licked her lips.

He had to get out of there. His mind was trying to override the pleasure he was feeling and kick in the flight response. Peter struggled until he felt the scrape of Neal’s teeth against his skin. Not teeth – _fangs._ “Let me go!”

“I can’t, Peter. You belong to me.”

“NO!” 

“Yes. Now and forever.” Neal whispered into Peter's ear. “‘I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul’.” He licked the side of Peter’s neck as he continued to thrust into him. “You are my dark thing, Peter. And I do love you…”

He bit down and Peter screamed. Pain radiated throughout his body, warring with his need. He bucked into Neal’s hand as he fought to get away, but Neal had him trapped against the glass. 

The agony spiraled, mixing with Peter’s arousal as he barreled towards the cliff – egged on by the pressure of Neal’s teeth in his neck, sucking Peter’s life from his vein, his fingers squeezing Peter’s erection, moving faster and faster, his cock shoving into Peter’s ass, hammering his prostate with each thrust. 

Peter tried again to break free, but there was no way out. Neal had him ensnared. He felt his orgasm rise up, plunging him over the edge, into the void. 

The game was over and there was no second place. Neal had won. 

Peter gave in, gave up, shooting hot and fast over Neal’s hand, waves of dizziness overcoming him. He sagged to the ground, his legs giving way.

The last thing he remembered was the copper taste of his blood on Neal’s lips.

A steady beep pulled Peter from unconsciousness. At first he thought it was his alarm clock, but upon further consideration he realized it wasn’t the right sound.

In fact, none of the sounds were right. No creaking of the house as it settled, no scraping of the tree outside his window, no rush of the cars as they drove past his home.

He opened his eyes and found himself staring at a nondescript ceiling made up of acoustic tiles. As he turned his head, the pain that sliced behind his eyeballs almost made him vomit. Blearily, Peter could see medical equipment next to the bed. A heart monitor – the source of the beeping sound – and a stand with a saline bag hanging from it, plus some other machines that he couldn’t identify.

Breathing shallowly through his mouth to dispel the nausea, Peter made the connection that he was in a hospital room.

He just didn’t know why.

He tried to recall the last thing that happened to him. He remembered working on the book, Elizabeth leaving early for her evening out, going upstairs to get ready for his date with Neal, then…blurs.

Looking past the equipment, he saw Elizabeth asleep in a chair nearby. He tried calling to her, but his throat wouldn’t seem to work. He must have made some noise because her eyes flew open.

“Peter! You’re awake!” She was next to him before he had a chance to register that she’d moved. “I was so worried.” She took his hand, her fingers warm against his skin. Peter tried to talk again and again nothing happened. 

“Let me get the nurse.” Peter watched as Elizabeth stepped out for a moment, returning with a cup and a petite blonde in her wake. “They said you can have ice chips. The doctor will be here soon.”

“Hi, Peter. My name’s Amanda. We’ve been waiting for you to wake up.” Amanda smiled at him. “I’m going to check your vitals, and see if we can raise the bed so you can have some of those ice chips, okay?” 

Peter nodded, motioning for Elizabeth to give him the cup. He needed to have his voice so he could ask what the hell had happened to him.

Amanda moved efficiently around the bed, checking Peter’s pulse and his blood pressure, then raising the head of the bed so he could sit up. 

“Here you go.” Elizabeth held out the cup. Spooning a few chips into his mouth, Peter felt like he’d died and gone to heaven as the ice slid down his throat. He coughed, clearing the last of the dryness.

“What…what happened?” His voice was still a scratchy whisper.

“What do you remember?” Elizabeth’s face was serious. 

“Not much.” Peter swallowed more chips. “We were in the office working and then you needed to go get ready for your evening. I stayed a bit later to finish up and then headed to my bedroom to dress for my date with Neal. After that...just bits and pieces…” 

He trailed off at Elizabeth’s expression. 

“El, what’s wrong?” 

“Peter,” she paused, a concerned look on her face. “ - who’s Neal?”

“What do you mean, ‘who’s Neal’?” Peter didn’t understand what she was asking. “Neal Caffrey - the guy I’ve been going out with. The one you’ve nagged me about. He owns that club on Riverside you were interested in. I had a date with him Saturday. We went…we went…” 

He couldn’t remember. Thinking desperately, all he could come up with was murky images of dark rooms, writhing bodies, blue eyes.

“Peter,” Elizabeth’s voice was low. “You’ve been unconscious in the hospital for almost a week. I found you passed out on your kitchen floor Sunday morning.”

“What?” That didn’t make sense. “No, it was evening. Saturday. I was getting ready to go to Neal’s club. l’appel Du Vide. 78 Riverside Drive.” He knew he was repeating himself, but he had to get Elizabeth to believe him. “You teased me because I was wearing leather pants.”

He swore that’s what happened. He remembered it, so it had to have happened – right?

“Peter, there’s no club at 78 Riverside Drive.” The gentleness in Elizabeth’s voice was almost his undoing. “It’s been a private art gallery for over a year.” 

“No! Neal owns it. It’s a BDSM club. You wanted to go and I kidded you about being kinky.” Peter was getting agitated. “And you met Neal, at my house. He came over for dinner and sucked whipped crème off your finger. You _met_ him!”

“Peter, you need to calm down…” Elizabeth began, but Peter cut her off. 

“Tell me you remember!” He was shouting but he didn’t care. She had to remember… 

“I can’t, Peter, I’m sorry. I’ve never met anyone named Neal Caffrey.” Elizabeth put her hand on his, but he shook her off. Peter didn’t want her touching him if she was going to lie to him. 

“You’re lying.” He voiced the thought in his head. “El, how could you lie to me?” 

“Peter, listen to me! I’m not lying! I found you unconscious on the floor. You were so pale I thought you were dead.” There were tears in Elizabeth’s eyes. “The doctors said you were suffering from traumatic blood loss, but they had no clue why. They said if I had come over that afternoon like I’d planned, it would have been too late.” 

Her words shocked him. _Blood loss…traumatic…too late…_ He was trying to make sense of what she was saying, but the understanding wouldn’t come.

“I was so scared, Peter.” A small sob escaped her. “I thought I’d lost you.”

“I’m sorry.” He whispered the words. “I’m sorry, El. Please don’t cry.” He took her hand and squeezed it. 

They sat in silence, Peter thinking about what she’d said and trying to rationalize it with what he knew in his gut to be true. They were not syncing up. 

“Tell me about Neal, Peter.” Her statement took him by surprise. 

“What?”

“Neal – tell me about him.” She sat back and looked at him. "For some reason you think you went out with this man and that I’ve met him. Tell me and let’s see if we can’t figure out what’s going on.”

Peter wasn’t sure if she was serious or just humoring him but maybe if he said the words out loud, the universe would right itself and things would be as he knew they should be.

“I – I spilled coffee on him when I went to the café to get us coffee. He invited me for dinner.” Faster and faster, the words tumbled out of him. Peter described Neal – his hair, his eyes, how he dressed. He told her about dinner at Peter Luger’s, Neal’s car, dancing in his living room. He told her about her reaction to Neal, the club, and how she encouraged Peter to go out with him even though Peter was hesitant. 

He even told her about Neal kissing him and the dreams. 

“He’s real, El. Right?” Peter wanted Elizabeth to confirm it. “Please tell me he’s real.” 

“Oh, hon, I wish I could.” She wouldn’t look at him as she spoke. It disturbed him. After all the years they had known each other, Peter could tell when Elizabeth was hedging. 

“What, El. You know something.”

She bit her lip, pausing before she spoke. “Peter, your description of Neal? That’s Nicholas.”  
“Nicholas?” Peter had no clue who she meant until she spoke.

“Your character. Nicholas Halden. From the new book you’re working on.”

_Nicholas Halden._ The main character in his new book. Who he based on Neal – didn’t he? 

“And those dates?” She picked up her purse from the floor. “Let me show you something.”

She pulled out her planner and her Blackberry. Flipping to a page in the book she handed it to him. Pushing a few buttons on her phone, she turned the screen so he could see it. Both items had a Tuesday night listed as a meet and greet hosted by their publishing house with the driver picking him up at seven. “You were really excited because they sent a convertible BMW instead of one of the ‘stuffy Town Cars’.” She made air quotes.

“Flip to Friday.” She changed the date on her Blackberry and handed it to him. “That night you scheduled a lesson at the house from a coach from Dance Manhattan. You said you wanted to possibly use swing dancing as a backdrop for the new book in your paranormal series.” 

It was all there in black and white. His book, the appointments, Nicholas Halden. Neal - easily explained away.

“You must have been dreaming while you were unconscious.” Elizabeth spoke quietly but firmly. “I’m sorry, Peter. But Neal isn’t real.”

“No…no…” It wasn’t true. Neal wasn’t a character in his book. He wasn’t a dream. Peter had met him, touched him, kissed him….

He looked into Elizabeth’s eyes and started to shake. Cold filled his chest and he couldn’t breathe. The machines started wailing, alarms going off everywhere. Suddenly, the room was filled with doctors and nurses shouting about his heart rate and yelling for sedatives.

They held him down while a nurse injected something into his IV. The last thing Peter registered before the blackness sucked him under was a pair of sapphire blue eyes.

October – A year later.

The Strand was packed for the signing of Peter’s new book. Customers were lined up at the registers, credit cards in hand, to purchase a copy. _Between the Shadow and the Soul_ was rapidly becoming his best-selling book to date. It wasn’t what he had originally planned to write, but after his stint in the hospital, it came pouring out of him.

“My hand is cramping.” Peter muttered the comment under his breath then turned on a smile for the next person in line. “And who do I make this out to?”

“Jenny.” The twenty-something blonde giggled as she stood with her girlfriends. “This is my second copy. I just had to meet you.”

“Thank you.” Peter scribbled her name and a few sentences and handed her the book.

“Can I get my picture taken with you? Please?” Another giggle.

“Sure.” Peter stood up and put his arm around her shoulder. Getting in position for the shot, his eyes widened when he felt her grab his ass. _God only knows what that picture looked like,_ he thought as the camera phone flashed.

The girl leaned up, whispered in his ear, and handed him a piece of paper before Elizabeth ushered her away. 

“You okay?” Her voice was concerned. “What did she say?”

“Something that’s not repeatable in public and would probably put me in traction.”

“Oh wow! You have to tell me!” Elizabeth looked pleadingly at him.

“Maybe later.” Peter looked at the line of people. “We need to get through this first.”

“Then drinks?” Elizabeth checked her watch. “We’re done at five and I’m going to need alcohol.”

“Oh definitely!” Sitting back down, Peter smiled at the next person. “Hi there. Who should I make this out to?”

Three hours and one major hand cramp later, the line was down to about half a dozen people. Peter was bleary-eyed and his throat was hoarse from the constant talking.

Taking a drink from the bottle of water Elizabeth had gotten him, he turned to the next person in line.

“So who can I make this out to?” Peter repeated for the umpteenth time, not really paying attention to the figure in front of him.

“Neal Caffrey.” The reply was soft and dark. 

Peter’s head shot up. Standing in front of him was a slim man dressed in black slacks and a green corduroy button-down shirt. Wavy brown hair framed chiseled cheekbones and sky-blue eyes. Eyes that Peter swore he’d seen before.

“I’m a big fan.” The man held out a copy of Peter’s newest book. “I’ve read everything you’ve written. But I think this one is my favorite.”

Peter stared. He _knew_ this man, he could feel it. He just didn’t know from where. Searching his memory, he found gauzy images that slipped out of his grasp into the ether. 

_“Peter!”_ Elizabeth’s hiss pulled him out of his thoughts. Mentally shaking himself, he realized that the man – Neal – was patiently waiting for him to take the book.

“Sorry.” Peter opened the front cover. “It’s Neal, right?”

“Yeah.” Neal smiled at him.

“So what did you like about the story?” 

“The darkness.” Neal’s voice dropped in volume and Peter needed to lean in to hear him. “The way you described the main character’s slide into what some might perceive as madness was riveting.” 

Peter shivered at Neal’s tone. It stirred something in him that was dangerous yet familiar.

“Plus the sensuality between Nick Halden and Alistair Stone was incredible.” Neal was right at the edge of Peter’s bubble, leaning in to his comfort zone but not invading it. The scent of his cologne coupled with something dusky underneath wrapped around Peter, making him hungry, but not for food. “I have to admit, it kept me up at night.”

Peter blushed at the implication. He knew there was no reason to – hell, he _wrote_ those scenes. But hearing Neal’s voice hinting at getting off to his words sent tingles of lust straight to his cock.

“I…uh…I’m glad you enjoyed it.” Peter finished signing the book and handed it back. He looked for Elizabeth. He needed to get some air. To get away from this man that was affecting him.

“Mr. Burke?” Neal was still in front of him. “I know I’ll have to wait in line again, but would you consider signing another copy for my assistant? She’s a big fan as well.”

_No!_ Peter’s brain was shouting the denial as he replied. “I’d be happy to.”

“Thank you! She’ll love it!” Neal picked up a book from the table. Peter watched him head over to the register and tried not to admire the way he walked or the curve of his ass.

Elizabeth, however, had no compunction in expressing her opinion. “Damn, Peter,” she whispered in his ear. “He’s sex on legs!”

“El!” Peter hissed back. “Not in front of the fans.”

“But he is! You need to go after that.” 

“Oh my God, will you be quiet?” Peter tried to shush her and smiled apologetically at the older lady standing at the table. “Um…who do I make this out to?”

“Harriet. And I’m with her,” the lady said. “He’s hot. You should tap that.”

Peter wanted to crawl under the table and disappear. “Uh, thank you for coming,” he said weakly as he handed the lady her book.

He could hear Elizabeth sniggering behind him. “See, even the fans think you should go there.”

“Not funny, El.” Peter greeted the next fan and signed another book.

“He’s in line again,” Elizabeth informed him. “You should ask him out.”

“El.” Peter didn’t want to be having this conversation in the middle of The Strand. “Keep your voice down.”

“Seriously, Peter, you haven’t dated in forever.” Elizabeth put a hand on his shoulder. “Ask him out. If you don’t, I’ll do it for you.”

_If you don’t, I’ll do it for you._

Peter froze. Elizabeth had said the same thing to him once before. He knew the words but couldn’t remember the context. The hair on the back of his neck rose.

“Hi.” Neal was back, book in hand. “Thank you again for this. June will be so thrilled.” He handed Peter the novel. “She loves the Neruda quote you used for the title. 

Neal’s voice was smoky as he quoted “I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.”

Peter almost dropped the book. His head spun and his equilibrium wasn’t working. Dimly he could hear Elizabeth asking if he felt okay. Closing his eyes, he breathed shallowly until the dizziness passed.

“Yeah, I think so.” He lifted his head and looked at her. “I think I need to eat something, though.”

“There’s a deli on the corner.” Neal offered the information in a quiet, concerned voice.

“You know, that sounds perfect.” Peter signed his name and handed the book back to Neal. “Are you hungry?”

Neal’s smile lit up the room. “I could use a bite.”

“How about coming with me? I swear I won’t pass out on you.”

“You sure?”

“Promise.” Peter grabbed his coat. “El, can you take care of this?” 

She grinned and kissed his cheek. “Of course, don’t I always?”

“I’d be lost without you.” Peter rounded the table. “Shall we?” He bowed slightly to let Neal go ahead of him. As they left the bookstore, he asked, ”So Neal, what do you do for a living?”

“I run a small art gallery…”

Absorbed in their discussion, neither man paid attention to the black cat that darted across their path and then stopped and hissed.

It ran to the entrance to the bookstore and yowled, demanding to be picked up by the woman standing at the door. Scooping the feline up, she nuzzled its fur for a moment. The cat meowed, its tone questioning. 

“Oh no.” Elizabeth smiled, her blue eyes beginning to glow. “I think it’s going exactly as we planned.” She scratched to cat under its chin and asked, “So Teddy, are you in the mood for some salmon?” The cat chirruped. “Of course it’s Wild Atlantic.” Laughing delightedly, she turned and went back into the store.

Finis


End file.
